


and turns me to gold

by lasciel



Series: Rabbit Heart [4]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Altered Mental States, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fucking Machines, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, Knotting, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Subspace, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-09-14 22:26:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16921572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasciel/pseuds/lasciel
Summary: “Sorry, sorry!” He laughs breathlessly, partly in amusement but mostly in relief, and slowly slides down onto Handsome Jack’s chair.Time doesn’t stop.There are no fireworks, and there’s no fanfare, except for the one he’s secretly humming for himself in the confines of his head. The universe doesn’t suddenly dissolve and rearrange itself around him.Rhys isn’t even really enjoying this moment, isn’t even reallyinit, because the funny, no, the tragic thing is… he really does trust Jack.He trusts Jack to have Jack’s best interests at heart. If those interests align with or benefit Rhys, though? That’s a risk, a gamble, Rhys takes every time he walks into Jack’s office.It’s scary and exhausting sometimes but he’d be lying if he pretended it wasn’t also a thrill.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Chair fic. set relatively shortly after 'and he holds me so tight'. which means Jack scared Vasquez off of Rhys after a failed murder attempt but is still about as far removed from realising that he wants more from Rhys than just sweaty fun as Pandora is from a stable governing body. 
> 
> by which I mean very, very far away.
> 
>    
> it's been a year. I'm very sorry about that, and I promise to do better from now on. the first chapter is extra long in an attempt to make up for that. beta read by my v good friendos [Anya](http://scootsaboot.tumblr.com/) & [Jun](http://ssealdog.tumblr.com/), bless them <3  
> to anyone still around: I hope you enjoy the filth (and feels)!
> 
> to [championofdogs](http://championofdogs.tumblr.com), who's a font of encouragement & to V: whoever you are, thank you.

Rhys really hopes he won’t have to make a habit out of sneaking out of his apartment, but when Handsome Jack sends you a small box and a short message requesting your presence in his office immediately, then you better already be moving by the time you’re done reading.

Even if it’s your birthday.

So then why did he have to sneak out, like a rule-breaking teenager?

Because Vaughn would never let him leave the apartment like this, and for once he would have been completely justified in his overly-protective behaviour.

Rhys tightens the coat further around his frame, hurries his steps even more. He’s making sure he’s using the least frequented route to Jack’s office, but even if Vasquez probably isn’t going to try anything else again, at least not so soon, Rhys’ ECHOeye is jumping from camera to camera and anything else that pings up on it.

He must make quite the sight, jog-walking Helios' halls this late in the evening in nothing but a grey coat that goes to his bare upper legs and a pair of white sandals.

Thankfully nobody pays him much attention, apart from a few speculating grins he catches out of the corners of his eyes. They probably think he’s just coming from a department party and doing the walk of shame.

Which he kinda is, except he’s walking towards the shame. Are reverse-walks of shame a thing?

Well, they should be a thing, Rhys decides. If anybody stops him right now, which is highly unlikely, because on Helios you try your best to ignore anyone acting weird lest you manage to get yourself into trouble as well, but _if_ anybody stops him despite that rule, and demands to see what he’s hiding underneath the coat then Rhys is going to die on the spot.

In the box Jack somehow got into Rhys’ and Vaughn’s apartment was a pair of white, flimsy panties, and a yellow skirt made out of fine material that almost puts his scandalously short shorts to shame with its length. The light grey crop top with the distinctive Hyperion H on the front looks almost prim compared to that; at least it covers up his chest and blue tattoo even if it doesn’t show the same consideration to his stomach and belly button. 

It’s not that Rhys thinks he can’t pull it off, even if he isn’t exactly fit and just naturally slim, apart from the natural softness in certain areas that comes with being an omega. But Rhys does feel slightly silly running around like this.

So, yeah. He is beyond grateful when he finally spots the elevator leading up to Handsome Jack’s office.

He hurries past the silent guards and into the relative safety of the elevator, practically melting against the steel walls, some of the tension seeping out of him.

He adjusts his stance slightly, bites his lip when the panties shift over his cock, which has been half-hard ever since he saw the clothes.

Just what has Jack planned for them today?

A very different kind of tension settles into his limbs, this one infused with excitement, and Rhys bites his bottom lip, and barely resists touching himself.

The anticipation is always a big part of the admittedly nerve-wracking fun he has with Jack, which means that Rhys is jumping out of the elevator before the doors are fully open. Very distantly, he’s glad that there’s nobody to see him so pathetically eager.

The office seems darker today than usual, with only a few white lamps to show him the way. Most of the light comes from outside, from the planet they’re orbiting, drenching the office in a warm, yellow-purple glow.

Jack is awaiting him with his arms crossed over his chest and a raised eyebrow that instantly lets Rhys know he did something stupid even before Jack looks him up and down rather pointedly. “Let me guess. You already put the outfit on and hurried over here like the most conspicuous smuggler in the history of smuggling.”

Shuffling on his feet, Rhys holds the coat closer to his body.

“You do realise you were meant to change here, right?” Huffing, Jack shakes his head.

Rhys inhales deeply, discards the first couple of replies that jump up onto his tongue. “You could have written a note,” he mumbles, angrily staring at his white sandals. He bought them ages ago because they looked pretty, but didn’t actually wear them even once until now.

Okay, so in retrospect, maybe Rhys should have been suspicious that Jack’s box didn’t include any footwear.

“I’m sure I didn’t catch that,” Jack says cheerfully, then claps his hands once, startling Rhys into looking at him again. “Come on, what are you letting me wait for?”

Taking a deep breath, Rhys lets the coat fall from his shoulders. The relief that washes over him when it doesn’t end up stuck to the rougher edges of his right arm more than makes up for how foolish he felt when he hurriedly practiced the move in front of the mirror before leaving.

The low whistle he gets from Jack also helps a lot, and Rhys straightens his back, trying hard not to preen too obviously.

“I knew you’d look great in this.” Jack moves closer, slowly walking circles around Rhys. “Sometimes I manage to astound even myself with my ingenuity.”

Rhys rolls his eyes, then lowers them quickly to hide it. Occasionally Handsome Jack makes it very difficult to keep a straight face while you’re in a room with him and his ego.

But even the annoyance niggling at Rhys’ mind isn’t enough to distract him from the intensity of Jack’s inspection.

The moment Jack realises there’s an extra pair of scents clinging to Rhys’ skin isn’t difficult to pinpoint. Jack stops abruptly mid stride, scowls at him.

Rhys holds his gaze without flinching, almost daring him to say something. Usually Jack lets it go with a sharp quip, a bit of posing and rough handling. Rhys doesn’t try to provoke him on purpose, really. At least not most of the time.

But if Jack thinks he can fuck Rhys and knot him more often than not only to send him away right after to deal with his drops alone and not get a nose full of his friends all over him as a thank you then he can think again.

Either Jack’s now able to read his thoughts or Rhys is off his game today and not able to contain his anger quite as well as usual. For his and his friends’ sakes he really hopes it’s the latter.

Jack’s the one who looks away first, but Rhys isn’t sure he’d count that as a win yet. Because Jack’s circling him more slowly now, a continuous low growl emitting from him.

Being regarded like a prize on display probably should not make him feel as good as it does, but that’s really not a problem Rhys needs to examine right now; it’s his birthday after all.  
He jumps slightly, his startled exhale surprisingly loud when rough palms settle on his hips, right at the edge of the skirt.

Jack presses himself against Rhys’ back, belts and buckles and entirely too many clothes between them. Slowly, his thumbs sneak up the bare skin exposed between skirt and top. “I’m pretty sure I deserve a reward.” He hums to himself, nose ghosting over the nape of Rhys’ neck. “Don’t you agree?”

Shivering, Rhys arches back against the solid presence behind him, and even the slowly dawning realisation that Jack apparently hasn’t got the slightest clue that it’s Rhys’ birthday today isn’t enough to quench the hunger gnawing at his chest.

Rhys simply won’t let it.

Thankfully, Jack isn’t expecting an answer, because he continues, all the while his hands slide down over the thin material of the skirt. “You should get a license,” Jack growls, and Rhys does moan when Jack’s hands slide underneath the skirt, impossibly warm on the flimsy material of the panties that might as well not be there for all the protection they offer. “Because _this_ is a weapon.”

Hands grab his ass roughly, and Rhys would roll his eyes again and tell Jack that he’s really, truly terrible at this if Rhys wasn’t too busy shaking out of his body with the intensity of his arousal.

Still, Rhys can’t believe he had to sneak away from being wonderfully sandwiched between his best friends to hear this. He makes terrible life decisions, obviously. Maybe he shouldn’t be left to his own devices.

Jack makes a pleased sound, fondling him, lips against the side of Rhys’ neck. “You know what would make this ass look even better?” His fingers dig into Rhys’ flesh, as if to make sure Rhys knows which ass Jack’s talking about.

The rough contact helps anchor Rhys, and he bites his bottom lip, shivering despite himself. But if Jack’s next words are anything close to, _if it were sitting on my cock_ , then Rhys might just have to grab his coat and leave, because there’s only so much cheese he can swallow before he begins to feel queasy.

Teeth on his earlobe, but before he can do more than suck in a breath he’s abruptly shoved forward, and has to take a couple of clumsy steps to avoid face-planting onto the unforgiving black floor.

He turns around, fully intent on letting Jack know that he’s _this_ close to spending some quality time alone with his hands tonight, and Rhys might just have his fingers touching while he says so.

But Jack’s next words stop him cold. “If said ass were sitting on my chair.” There’s something in his eyes, something wild, his wide grin only enhancing the effect.

Blinking rapidly, Rhys concedes that this is a weird enough follow-up to soothe away most of the displeasure and to pique his curiosity.

Rhys eyes Jack’s chair. The self-made man’s modern throne, as it’s called in quiet conversations throughout Hyperion’s busy networks. A yellow monstrosity, if Rhys is being honest with himself.

So far, the only times Rhys could have been considered sitting on that chair was when he was riding Jack’s cock, and Vaughn and Yvette have been very adamant that those instances don’t count.

Yeah, his friends can be very mean and unfair sometimes.

With a coquettish glance at Jack, and something that can hopefully be considered a demure smile, Rhys folds his hands behind his back, and slowly makes for the raised dais.

Helios’ ultimate place of power.

Don’t make any rash movements, don’t seem too eager, and do not, _do not run_.

The internal barrage of scolding is thankfully successful, and Rhys doesn’t fall all over his suddenly very ungainly-seeming legs, nor does he lunge greedily for the yellow chair while Jack’s trailing after him.

See? Even armored with nothing but a tiny skirt, Rhys has totally got this.

Still, his palm feels a little clammy. With Jack fully clothed in more layers of clothing than he should be able to pull off, Rhys is just all too aware that basically all of his skin is on display, and his thoughts are running in wild circles, trying to guess as to what Jack’s endgame could be here. 

Some role-playing, maybe, with the enthusiastic and ditzy secretary ‘giving a helping hand’ to the overworked boss in more ways than one? Not exactly new, but Rhys has seen enough porn to appreciate the classics.

Once he’s reached his goal he trails the fingers of his left hand over the smooth material, glances at Jack who’s now leaning against the edge of his desk. He should be used to this by now, and even though he expects it, the heavy smell of Jack, of _alpha_ , that clings to this area is strong enough to leave Rhys blinking dazedly.

Jack gives him an encouraging nod, grin still entirely too wide. “Go on, it won’t bite.” 

For some reason that makes Rhys hesitate. Just for a couple of seconds, really, only long enough to notice that Jack’s posture is… off. Too still, too controlled. There’s always a manic energy to Handsome Jack, so intense it seems even tangible by simply looking at his trademarked posters. 

Realising that Jack is holding back is unsettling enough to throw Rhys completely off his game.

He’s hesitated too long — Jack rolls his eyes, and, in one fluid motion, narrows them at Rhys. 

“If I didn’t know better,” he says, one-sided grin all Handsome Jack, “I’d say you don’t trust me.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, his head tilted slightly, looking like some kind of Pandoran predator who hasn’t decided yet if he should go for the kill now or play with his food for a little while longer, and Rhys really shouldn’t have watched those documentaries. “And you do trust me. Don’t you, Rhysie?”

Rhys has had more than enough time to get used to Jack’s mood swings. He can’t anticipate them, probably never will, but he’s learned to roll with them well enough to prevent himself from being dragged under by their force.

Doesn’t mean his heart isn’t trying to beat right out of his chest right now. He really shouldn’t have hesitated. Rhys smiles, doesn’t waste any effort to making it appear smooth; it’s his voice that needs to be even. “I trust you.” Tearing his eyes away from Jack when he’s oozing violence like it’s a predetermined gift is like looking away from a bullet while it’s coming for your head, but again, Rhys has practice. He lets his gaze linger on Jack’s chair, touching it reverently while not really seeing it because his brain is too busy trying to remain focused, then slowly trails his eyes back to Jack’s face.

The glare has morphed into a raised eyebrow, but the hard half-grin is still present. A partial victory.

“Of course I trust you, Jack.” Rhys widens his eyes slightly, but doesn’t bat his eyelashes. He doesn’t want to oversell it. “I’m just… surprised.” He laughs, bites his lip, takes careful measure of Jack following the motion with his eyes. “You know people would kill to have this chance,” Rhys adds, voice lowered, aiming for the one thing that never fails to save him from Jack’s ire.

His infamous pride.

Jack hands settle on his hips as he throws his head back and _laughs_ , and Rhys allows himself to breathe again. “Do I—? Of course I know that this is everybody’s wet dream.” He seems to want to say more, but decides to simply laugh at Rhys instead.

Honestly, that is more than okay with Rhys, who uses the small moment of respite to centre himself, half-leaning against Jack chair for support. Crisis successfully averted once more.

The laughter stops as abruptly as it started, and Rhys straightens instantly under Jack’s piercing gaze. “And yet I can’t help but notice that you’re _still_ not doing what I’ve now repeatedly told you to do,” Jack hisses, but now it’s not Handsome Jack’s anger radiating off of him and merely the wounded disbelief of an alpha who’s used to getting what he wants without ever having to ask for it.

And that’s something Rhys learned how to handle long before he ever set a foot on Helios.

“Sorry, sorry!” He laughs breathlessly, partly in amusement but mostly in relief, and slowly slides down onto Handsome Jack’s chair.

Time doesn’t stop. 

There are no fireworks, and there’s no fanfare, except for the one he’s secretly humming for himself in the confines of his head. The universe doesn’t suddenly dissolve and rearrange itself around him.

Rhys isn’t even really enjoying this moment, isn’t even really _in_ it, because the funny, no, the tragic thing is… he really does trust Jack. 

He trusts Jack to have Jack’s best interests at heart. If those interests align with or benefit Rhys, though? That’s a risk, a gamble, Rhys takes every time he walks into Jack’s office.

It’s scary and exhausting sometimes but he’d be lying if he pretended it wasn’t also a thrill.

He closes his eyes, patting the armrests. Inhales deeply, fills his lungs with Jack’s scent, and lets it all out with the next long exhale. Definitely worth suffering through the constant drops for, no matter what his friends say.

The rustle of movement, and he watches silently while Jack arranges himself in front of him. He looks comfortable, leaning against his desk with his hands propping him up. The curl of his lips speaks of deep satisfaction and Rhys is so high on possibilities, on power, right now he doesn’t even mind the anticipatory glint in Jack’s eyes.

“Feeling good, princess?”

 _I feel like you should be addressing me with king_ , Rhys thinks, but decides against testing Jack’s temper so soon after his latest outburst. Instead he grins up at him, rubs his left leg against Jack’s, and purrs. “Never felt better.”

Usually Rhys is the biggest advocate of foreplay, but if it didn’t mean getting up from the chair then Rhys would already be tearing at Jack’s clothes right now. Shit, maybe the rumours are true and Rhys is soaking in drugs through all the bare skin that’s touching the material of Jack’s chair. That would certainly explain the light-headedness.

Jack chuckles, but makes no move to touch Rhys. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” He seems content to just stand there and look at Rhys, and Rhys isn’t even pleasuring himself right now.

Should he? Rhys is still busy pondering over that question when there’s a click, and his arms are being pressed tightly against the armrests in the next second.

Rhys blinks down stupidly at the flat but wide restraints encircling his wrists, analysing them with his ECHOeye before he even registers what just happened. 

Metal. Unbreakable with normal means, and Rhys has a disorienting moment of cold panic before he remembers that he has a prosthetic that could snap through them with minimal effort.

Still, his next exhale is somewhat shaky, and his voice definitely a squeak. “What?” He stares up at Jack, too breathless to manage more words.

“See,” Jack says slowly, leaning forward, “that’s why it’s so important to talk with each other.” He pats Rhys’ arm patronisingly. “And to be honest, because if you didn’t trust me that would make this incredibly awkward for you, wouldn’t it?”

_Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic._

But no, even with Rhys basically restrained, there’s nothing on Jack’s face, his posture, that gives off any danger. Not more than it usually does, anyway.

During his search for a clue, Rhys’ eyes flicker to Jack’s bare forearms, stay there, because they seem to almost be shaking. 

Hm. Interesting.

He keeps leisurely rubbing his leg against Jack’s as if nothing happened while taking a subtle sniff at the air. Jack’s position combined with his baggy jeans makes it impossible to tell, and it certainly doesn’t help that Rhys is practically suffocating in Jack’s scent right now but… yeah. There it is.

Jack’s definitely turned on, and he’s also… nervous? No. _Excited._

Well, of course. 

He’s not the one who was suddenly restrained without consent, and Rhys can already tell he’s going to be wearing long sleeves for a very long time if he’s supposed to remain like this while they fuck. Hard metal is a long shot away from the fluffy, orange handcuffs Vaughn prefers or the soft but firm silk Yvette wields like a weapon.

The thing that his friends don’t get is why Rhys hasn’t even tried to lose Jack’s interest, seeing as they’re as safe as they’ll ever be on Helios, and in Hyperion’s sharp and shiny hold. And if Jack was anybody else, Rhys would never put up with the drops or with this.

It’s not the crush he always had on Handsome Jack clouding his judgement, no matter how often Vaughn insists on the contrary. Handsome Jack and Jack might be a package deal, but it’s Jack Rhys gets to see most of the time. The person behind the legends.

A man with a terrible sense of humour and even worse jokes. A man with enough issues to fill an entire space station, with hands rough from work and a belly getting soft with age.

A man, an alpha, with a scent that fills a place somewhere inside of Rhys’ chest he didn’t even know needed to be filled.

Rhys would try to explain it to them, but honestly, he can’t even really explain it to himself. 

But Jack doesn’t do relationships, and his flings and affairs never last for very long.

Who knows how much longer Rhys has until Jack decides to move on?

Rhys is well into his twenties now, and however little time he’ll get with Jack, he’ll take. And after that...

It’s a thought he’s been skillfully dodging for a while now, and he doesn’t see why he should change that now. 

It’s still his birthday, for fucks sake, even if Jack doesn’t care.

And Rhys has been strung-up for long enough now and has no patience left for Jack’s terrible bedside manners and games. 

He kicks at Jack’s leg. “Come on, touch me!” It would probably border on insolence if it wasn’t dressed up in a whine, because despite all of this he’s somehow _still turned on_.

He really is hopeless, isn’t he?

“Ah, ah, ah!” Rhys gets an admonishing finger-waggle in reward which is definitely not what he ordered. “Patience, grasshopper. The night’s still young, isn’t it?” Contrary to his words, there’s another sound, a weird succession of clicks, like something metallic unfolding. Jack straightens up, reaches up above for something over Rhys’ head.

Rhys tries to lean back, to catch a look, because there hadn’t been anything up there but the massive backrest when he sat down, but he gets his answer before he can sprain something.

Jack waves something black and shiny in his face, making Rhys go cross-eyed trying to follow the movement. “Ta-da, the stuff of myth and legends!” He finally stills, and Rhys instantly focuses on the flashy Hyperion logo and blue lights.

Realises the thin, wobbling and golden tube it’s attached to must be connected to the chair he’s sitting on.

On the other end of the black stick is a studded grey tip, one Rhys is intimately familiar with, even if not with this specific one.

Jack leans closer, an eager grin stretching his mouth wide open. “The executive override port,” he whispers feverently.

Staring at it with wide eyes, Rhys suddenly has trouble swallowing. He tries anyway, reflexively, and it seems extremely loud in the hush that has settled over them. 

There are a lot of things he could say to that revelation, but instead of the cheeky _it looks even bigger than I imagined_ , all that comes out of his mouth is a high-pitched, “okay?”

For a moment, Jack seems honestly perplexed. Then he snorts, and pokes Rhys’ nose with the cold, grey tip. “I didn’t think I’d have to explain to you what comes next, but once again you have me doubting the validity of the IQ score listed on your profile.”

Rhys wrinkles his nose but remains silent. Bites his tongue, because the alternative might very well be a scream. 

If that thing goes into his head, there’s nothing Jack couldn’t do to him. Couldn’t make him do, with the right code. Not that Jack doesn’t already have complete and utter control over everybody on Helios, but…

...imagining Jack inside of his head is a whole new level of unexpected horror.

His memories, his thoughts, everything he is would be accessible to Jack.

Nevermind every warm and treasured moment with Vaughn and Yvette or the sad and pathetic backdrop to Jack and his meeting. _The Plan_ , in its entire harebrained stupidity, right there for Jack to stumble over. 

He doesn’t even try to fool himself into thinking that Jack would be in any way appeased to hear that Rhys long since stopped thinking or caring about it.

Rhys couldn’t even begrudge him his anger.

And even if that’s not what Jack is after, even if he doesn’t know, doesn’t _suspect_. He has the resources, the contacts. He could delete and change anything up there to his liking, could turn Rhys’ brain into mush, liquify it while Rhys could do nothing but feel it boil, and Rhys really shouldn’t be allowed to watch documentaries of any kind, why is nobody looking out for him!?

The port vanishes from his sight, exchanging places with Jack’s blurry face. “Hey.”

He’s going to plug that thing into Rhys’ brain. He’s going to kill Rhys, and then he’ll go after Yvette and Vaughn and they’are all going to die on his birthday and it’s all _Rhys’ fau—_

“Helios to Rhys!”

Rhys’ head jolts to the side, and the sharp sting of his cheek is enough to startle him into breathing again. He blinks away the wetness clouding his vision, greeted by Jack leaning over him, filling his entire vision.

Jack cups the cheek he just slapped, cradling Rhys’ face. “You with me again?” he asks, voice uncharacteristically gentle. There are lines etched into his face, unhappy ones.

Is he— is he _concerned_ about Rhys?

If he had the air for it, Rhys would laugh hysterically, he’s sure of it.

But he doesn’t, and so he only nods slightly, leans into Jack’s warm palm and closes his eyes. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

“Good.” Huffing, Jack traces over Rhys’ lips with his thumb. “Bad memories?” Anger in his voice, directed at some unknown entity who might have hurt Jack’s latest toy while he wasn’t looking, and again, Rhys would laugh if he had any energy left for it.

Rhys shakes his head instead, concentrates on breathing, on filling his lungs with Jack’s scent while he his time is running out. Tick, tock.

Jack snorts, presses the sound of it against Rhys’ forehead with his mouth, and that is nice enough to warrant opening his eyes again.

He’s greeted by a lopsided smile. “You watched those documentaries that made the rounds couple of years ago before they got censored into incomprehensible bits, didn’t you?”

“What if I did?” he murmurs sullenly. His right arm clicks against the metal holding him, and oh right, he almost managed to forget about the restraints. 

Tick, tock.

Jack rolls his eyes at him, grinning again, and well, at least one of them is having fun. “Why don’t you just ask me what I’ve got planned for you before you run away with your imagination, idiot?”

If he’s going to die soon anyway, he doesn’t have to take that, does he? Rhys kicks at Jack’s shin, bolstered by the disgruntled noise Jack makes. “Wouldn’t have to ask if you just told me.”

“Rhysie, Rhysie, Rhysie.” Jack shakes his head, almost fondly. “What am I going to do with you?” He laughs then, winks at Rhys. “That’s the big question, isn’t it?”

Rhys might be going to die with very little in the way of clothing but he’s going to die with his dignity intact, however little of it yet remains. He raises his chin and growls.

“Careful,” Jack says, lightly slapping one of Rhys’ bare knees. “I put a lot of time and effort into this, and I’d hate to think you don’t appreciate that.” He grabs to his right, bringing the executive override port back into Rhys view.

Rhys scowls at it.

“This,” Jack tells him, waving the instrument of Rhys’ impending doom in his face once more, “is going to run a small but ingenious program in your thick head.”

Rhys directs his scowl at Jack’s smirking face.

“And then we two are going to have some very creative fun together.”

Rhys is extremely unimpressed by the non-explanation, but at least that doesn’t sound like Jack’s planning on rummaging through his head. Sceptical, Rhys sniffs. “Define fun.”

“Aw, you’re such a damn spoilsport.” Jack has the gall to pout at him, but when Rhys remains expectantly silent, he concedes with obvious reluctance. “It’s only a surface program, nothing that’s going to stick around once the port is out again.”

Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, Rhys considers this. Not that he has much of a choice; if he asks for a rain check, he has no illusions of setting foot in Jack’s office ever again.

Chuckling, Jack slaps Rhys’ thigh. “You’re acting exactly like some Vladof spy on the verge of biting off his tongue instead of spilling the beans on his mission, it’s hilarious, princess.” He draws his trimmed nails down Rhys’ naked skin, and Rhys shivers. “I know everything there is to know about you, so stop getting your panties in a twist and get on with the program.” He pokes Rhys’ nose with the pointed end of the override again, grin full of teeth. “Literally.”

_I know everything there is to know about you._

Seeing as Rhys is still alive, he seriously doubts that. Rhys inhales shakily. 

So. This is going to happen, and Jack has no interest in what’s going on in Rhys’ head because he’s convinced there’s nothing more to Rhys than what is on record in Hyperion’s databases.

This is probably a really stupid thing to feel miffed about, considering it’s apparently going to get his ass out of the firing line.

With his next exhale he forces himself to relax and practically melts into the upholstery, tilts his head in acquiescence and looks at Jack through lowered eyelashes.

The hunger that flares up in Jack’s eyes is more than a little gratifying.

“See,” Jack says huskily, leaning in and licking a slow and wet stripe over Rhys’ temple and port. “That wasn’t so difficult now was it.”

Rhys keens, and turns his head towards Jack eagerly, seeking contact.

But a cruel hand grabs his chin and firmly turns him away, denying him. “Jack,” he whines, drawing out the name until he stops with a squeak.

Because there’s something cool and unyielding pressing against his port, and right. Almost managed to forget about that.

“Open up, baby,” Jack coos. “Let daddy in.”

Trust Jack to make this sexual in a weird way. Huffing in disbelief, Rhys lets the fake skin patch slide open and isn’t even the least bit surprised when Jack thrusts the override in immediately without any finesse.

Still, he almost arches right off the chair or would have if the metal restraints weren’t keeping him in place. He hisses between clenched teeth. “ _Fuck_.”

He ignores Jack’s cheerful comment about minding his language, and the prompt that immediately pops up, just to give himself a moment to adjust to the intrusion.

_Allow **JA(K5-H4X.exe** to access [hidden file]?  
Yes/No_

Well, that’s not ominous at all.

Rhys opens his eyes again, lets the prompt hover over Jack’s grinning face, tinted blue now with the automatic activation of his ECHOeye.

“What’s it feel like?” Jack asks, voice hushed.

“Haven’t activated the program yet.”

Rolling his eyes, Jack sighs. “Thanks, I can see that, ‘cause there’s no lightshow going on here yet.” He taps against the the side of the override, and Rhys yelps, feeling his entire brain vibrate. “Oops, sorry,” Jack says, not sounding sorry at all. “I meant having that in your brain.”

If Jack does that again, Rhys is going to tear the restraints right off of his precious chair and slug him in the face with them. He growls, giving Jack the evil eye. “Technically the opening is designed to have enough space for it, but it still makes my head feel… full.”

Impossibly, Jack’s grin returns even wider than before. “Oh, man. There are so many things I could say to that...”

“Don’t,” Rhys hisses. “Not if you want me to actually start the installation.”

Jack holds his hands up appeasingly, then decides he’d rather have them trailing up Rhys’ legs instead. “I wouldn’t dream of it, princess.” He crouches down and looks up at Rhys beseechingly. “Come on, I want to see the fruits of my labour.”

Yeah, okay. 

Having Jack be the one on his knees and whining is a very nice change of pace. 

He’d record it or snap a picture if he had any illusions about getting away with it. Even more than that, Rhys would like to ask for some kind of promise that Jack isn’t going to mess with him too badly or insist on some kind of safeword, just in case… but this is still Jack.

“Fine, fine.” He hits _yes_ before he can second-guess himself. The download bar starts moving, faster than he’d like, but also way slower than is good for his nerves.

Jack makes an appreciative noise, his fingertips teasing at the edges of the skirt. “There’s a good boy.”

Rhys smiles lopsidedly, grateful for the distraction. “I want to be good for you.” He spreads his legs meaningfully.

“Oh?” Interest piqued, Jack’s gaze settles on Rhys’ lap. His fingers slip underneath the material barely covering it.

There’s a peep from somewhere on Jack’s desk, but they both ignore it.

Moaning, Rhys presses his head into the backrest, doesn’t even really register that the download hits 60%.

The sharp inhale tells Rhys exactly how much Jack appreciates what he unveils, but Rhys’ victorious smirk is short-lived. Warm breath ghosts over the wet patch at the front of the panties, over Rhys half-hard cock, and he groans.

“What a lovely sight,” Jack says in low tones, but doesn’t continue his exploration.

Confused, Rhys looks down at Jack, who seems content just grinning up at him, clever fingers drawing idle circles on Rhys’ upper thighs, just shy of where Rhys’ needs them.

It’s Rhys birthday and he’s going to get something nice from Jack today, and if he has to fight him tooth and nail for it. “Jack, touch me.” He wraps his legs around Jack’s shoulders, draws him closer a bit more roughly than he intended. “Please?”

Jack isn’t even looking at him; instead his focus is on the override, probably gauging the progress of the installation process, and as if on cue, the download bar flashes once before vanishing.

 _Download complete_ , his ECHOeye informs him helpfully before deactivating itself again.

Rhys braces himself.

Nothing happens.

Frowning, Rhys tilts his head. “Not to question your coding skills, but I don’t think...” He trails off, because something is touching his left arm.

Which would be fine if Jack didn’t very obviously have both of his hands still resting on Rhys’ upper legs.

The sensation travels up his arm, almost like fingers, and Rhys makes a very manly sound, staring at empty air. 

Empty air that is definitely touching him. _Somehow_.

“Jack!”

Jack hums, obviously pleased. “You were saying?”

Another peep, but Jack doesn’t react, apart from a small tick at the corner of his eyes.

Warm breath on the crook of Rhys’ elbow, followed by a sucking sensation, and Rhys’ hips buck up of their own volition. His arm is still firmly pressed down against Jack’s chair and there is nobody, nothing, there. “How—?” he manages to bite out, and the sensation slowly travels up his arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The not-fingers decide to make a return, gently rubbing where the scarred skin of his right shoulder meets the prosthetic, and that’s just cheating.

He’d tell Jack as much, but Rhys is a little too busy trying — and mostly failing — not to freak out.

“I see I’m not needed.” Jack pats his thighs, standing up. “Have fun, Rhysie.”

“What? No!”

But Jack has no trouble freeing himself from the lock Rhys’ legs have on him.

In his defense, Rhys can feel more than just Jack’s fingers on his legs when he untangles them from his middle, and that’s a little distracting.

Thankfully, Jack doesn’t move far. He hops onto his desk, reaching behind himself. Idly pours himself a drink, as if there wasn’t an invisible touch crawling up the inside of Rhys’ left leg right now.

The non-fingers tease the thin skin next to his balls, and Rhys moans, hips bucking up again.

“Either I’m just that good,” Jack says, swirling the dark contents in his glass while looking at Rhys thoughtfully. “Or you’re just really easy.” He chuckles when Rhys makes a half-hearted attempt at kicking him in the knee, draws his feet up and places them next to Rhys’ trembling thighs.

Rhys growls, and doesn’t close his legs — the sensation of his filling cock pressing against the wet lace is bordering on torture at this point.

“Ooooh, somebody’s in a mood!” Chuckling, Jack takes a deep gulp from his glass, and Rhys watches his throat move intently. 

He can’t stop his eyelashes from fluttering when the not-fingers at his shoulder pinch the skin slightly, straddling the fine line between pain and pleasure.

Another peep, longer this time, and Jack’s amusement vanishes instantly. He turns to the side, hits his desk with a loud slap. “What?” he hisses into the intercom.

“Handsome Jack, sir, there’s been an incident,” a nondescript voice says. “Intruders.”

Jack’s low laugh sinks into Rhys’ skin, crawls up his back in direct contrast to the invisible fingernails that are dragging down his skin, and Rhys whimpers.

“I think I’m going to send you down to the labs to help with the slag testing,” Jack says mildly. He watches Rhys squirm and buckle, nurses his drink with murder in his eyes.

Seeing as the murder isn’t directed at Rhys, he sees no problem in basking in the attention. “Jack,” he whines, staring up at Jack with heavy eyes. Wouldn’t hurt to remind Jack that he could — and _should_ — join in on touching Rhys, right? He rubs his thigh clumsily against one of Jack’s legs, just in case that alone isn’t getting the point across.

“Or.” Directed at him or not, Jack’s smile sends a small thrill through Rhys. “I could just line you up in front of my considerable and very expensive security department and have them shoot you full with holes, because apparently _they can’t be bothered to do their job_.”

It’s like a switch’s been flipped in Rhys’ head, and his cock practically jumps against the panties, hard and leaking. This might not be a healthy reaction to witnessing Handsome Jack’s full wrath, but everything about this situation is surreal, and Rhys decides that the usual rules don’t apply.

“It’s a code purple, sir!” the voice squeaks, fast enough that the words become almost incomprehensible, as if the person can feel Jack standing next to them, prepared to pull the trigger himself.

Rhys has trouble understanding the change the words cause in Jack, not only because the teasing all over his body increases in strength. Jack’s anger becomes sharper, more directed.

Even colder.

If the not-hands would ease up on Rhys for a second, he would probably be able to recall what exactly _code purple_ stands for. As if reading that thought, the one between his legs stops ghosting over his balls and changes into the shape of a palm that fits itself over one of them and squeezes. 

Rhys throws his head back and _mewls_.

A firm hand, a real one, grabs his chin, and Rhys blinks his eyes open, having difficulty focusing them on Jack’s face.

Jack’s smirking as if nothing happened. “I’ll be back in a second.” His thumb pushes Rhys’ bottom lip down, and Rhys tries to suck Jack’s thumb into his mouth, uncoordinated, and already on the verge of coming. “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Rhys makes a confused sound, then an indignant one when Jack pats his cheek, stands up and _leaves_.

The not-palm gets joined by a second one, and then his other ball is being fondled as well, and Rhys’ head hits the back of the chair hard.

Distant laughter has him forcing his eyes open again only to see Jack almost at the door already. “Jack!” His voice breaks slightly, tinted with something suspiciously like panic.

Jack has the gall to wave at him. “Try not to come until I’m back!” he calls cheerily, and his loud laughter seem to echo around Rhys even after the door has already fallen shut behind Jack.

Rhys leans forward as far as he can only to throw himself back into the chair, cursing Jack until he forgets to be mad at him, too busy trying to roll his hips into the not-palms, so close he can almost taste it, just a little more, just—

The not-palms vanish, leaving only the teasing fingers on his shoulder and arm.

Not nearly enough to get him off.

Breathing in deeply and shakily, Rhys starts cursing again, then stares at Jack’s desk without actually seeing anything, fuming while his heartbeat slows down. 

Jack could have at least shared his drink with Rhys before leaving. His throat is beginning to feel a bit dry.

He flinches when a not-palm settles on his throat, and he tilts his head back reflexively. But the sensation stays with him, unwavering, intensifies until Rhys is aware of every inhale he takes. 

His cock starts filling again, because with or without a mysterious program, there’s apparently something seriously wrong in Rhys’ head.

“Okay,” Rhys says to himself breathlessly. “Okay, this is happening.” He feels like an idiot instantly. What if this is a test and Jack’s standing right outside the door, watching Rhys babble to himself like a moron when he’s been gone for, what, five minutes, tops?

Not-fingers trail over the soles of his feet, and he kicks, squirms, loses one of his sandals in the process. He had forgotten how ticklish he could be.

He needs to— he needs to calm down. However unsettling, all of this boils down to zeros and ones, and that’s something Rhys understands. Something he’s good at.

The sensation slowly travels up his legs, looping around them seemingly at random, never in a way that lets Rhys predict their path. The fingers turn into fingernails, pointy enough that his metal arm clanks against the restraints. 

So much for showing Jack that he’s calm and in control.

The program is obviously designed to affect the part of his brain responsible for handling external input, somehow hijacking it and making him feels things that aren’t there.

Because there should already be white lines going up his legs with the force of the invisible fingernails, but there’s nothing, only smooth and unblemished skin.

The disconnect of what he feels and what he sees is messing with him again, his breath quickening even though the not-hand around his throat hasn’t changed the pressure it’s applying. Rhys closes his eyes, tries to keep the panic at bay.

Just zeroes and ones.

Nothing that can hurt him.

Hopefully.

The not-fingernails reach his lap, and he shivers. One of them slides around his hard cock, up his carefully kept treasure trail, only to suddenly tip into his belly button, and Rhys giggles, not quite fast enough to keep the sound inside.

The other fingernail seems to be waiting, drawing slow circles on the sweaty skin on the inside of his thigh. Almost like he’s supposed to concentrate on one sensation at a time, even while the others, noticeably the not-hand around his throat, continue doing what they do. It’s— it’s too much at once, and Rhys whines, bucks his hips, trying to dislodge the touch somehow.

He’s so hard, cock straining against the wet front of the panties. _Touch me_ , he thinks desperately, trying to project the command to Jack, to the program playing games with him, to anyone listening. _Please, please, please_.

His mouth snaps shut abruptly, leaving him with the realisation that he must have been begging out loud, but not enough time to regret his weakness. The idle not-finger is moving again, going right for his opening, and Rhys thrashes against the restraints, light-headed, still in the clutches of the not-hand almost but not quite strangling him.

Teasing circles around his opening, so close then wider again, and if that touch would just stop messing around, would just slip in, even a bit, he’s _so close_ —

It’s like a bucket of cold water when everything vanishes at once, leaving only Rhys and the upholstery sticking to his sweaty skin.

Panties drenched in pre-come and now slick, trickling down out of him in preparation for penetration that’s apparently not happening.

The realisation of what’s going on settles around his throat like a vice made out of dread.

 _Try not to come until I’m back_ , Jack said, and of course that had made him laugh.

The program is inside of him, reading all of his signals, acting accordingly.

Rhys _can’t_ come, isn’t permitted to. He has to wait for Jack’s return.

He knocks his head against the backrest repeatedly. When that fails to make him feel anything but dizzy, he kicks Jack’s desk, curses when that only ends with a smarting toe.

And now he’s lost his other sandal as well. Fantastic.

At least the office isn’t as chilly as it usually is. Or maybe that’s just Rhys’ body running too hot under the onslaught of sensation.

“Jack, come on.” There are cameras here, Rhys knows. He stares up at the left side of the door, openly pleading. Somewhere over there, though it’s not visible. “I need you.” He squirms again, the wet panties now sticking to his skin. “I need you, _alpha_.”

There, Rhys’ trump card. He’d scowl at himself for his lack of shame, but he’s barely hanging on to the fear squirming low in his stomach, so his pride can go take a walk in space for all he cares.

He waits, trying to remain calm, convinced Jack’s going to stroll in any second now. Even Jack’s voice would be enough, even if it was just to tease him for his lack of patience. Just a confirmation that’s he’s there, listening, watching.

 _Anything_ to show Rhys that he isn’t completely alone right now. His erection wilts fast enough to make him wince, his pulse still droning in his ears.

A not-finger caresses his port, loving little circles around the override splitting open his head. His gut tightens, his fingers dig into the armrests, and Rhys howls into the empty office.

The pathetic echo of his distress is all he receives in return.

* * *

After being left hanging on the brink of orgasm for the sixth time, Rhys has had enough. He’ll grovel at Jack’s feet until his knees are bleeding, apologising for what he’s about to do, but he needs to get out of this chair, needs to get that thing out of his head _now_. 

He breathes in deeply, ignores the firm touch pressing against the back of his thighs. Concentrates on his prosthetic, ready to snap it up—

Only to slump to the right in the next instant when it fails to obey him.

His ECHOeye activates itself, and Jack’s voice, slightly distorted, artificial, rings in his head. “Ah, ah, ah!” it admonishes him. “No cheating, sugar.” There’s even a small, blue Jack sitting in his vision, waggling a finger in warning.

If his stomach didn’t feel like somebody punched it right now, Rhys might even be able to appreciate Jack’s foresight and attention to detail. As it is, he goes right past hopelessness and into despair.

The ECHOeye blinks out again, leaving Rhys in the darkened office, alone and completely helpless.

Surrounded by invisible hands, fingers, and teeth, arching away and towards them while they touch and prod and tease and pinch. 

A puppet on invisible strings, directed by an uncaring master.

Rhys screams.

* * *

The chair doesn’t even smell of Jack anymore, and Rhys is already sick of the pathetic combination of his own sweat, pre-come and slick.

Even with the skirt, there’s no way the upholstery isn’t drenched by now, and Rhys takes vicious satisfaction in having ruined Jack’s pseudo-throne.

Not-teeth close around the flesh of his throat, close to the skin an alpha would break to bond with him, and somehow that’s what finally breaks him.

He thrashes and howls until, at least for a few blessed moments, he doesn’t feel anything anymore.

* * *

Time loses all meaning.

He’s stopped counting his almost-orgasms a long while ago. Knows he’s lost consciousness at least twice.

He’s coming down again right now, breathing raggedly, try to swallow around a bone-dry throat.

His left wrist throbs dully, skin already reddened. The only mark visible on him, apart from the drenched panties that’ll need to be burned once he gets out of this chair.

Rhys laughs, a dry, hacked noise. _If_ he gets out of this chair.

The black amusement doesn’t last, instantly replaced by a wave of despair so strong he has to bite his lip to keep from screaming.

A waste of energy that would only make his throat hurt worse.

Rhys doesn’t deserve this, does he?

A not-fingernail drags down his chest, almost mockingly, and he doesn’t have it in him to shiver anymore.

Rhys is a good omega. Vaughn and Yvette told him so repeatedly. Even people he’s not as close to have confirmed it!

His nipples are pinched, slow at first, but he knows it’ll get a lot more intense, bordering on painful. It’s far from the first time, after all.

So what did he do to deserve this? He must have disappointed Jack. Or Jack simply got bored of him, decided Vasquez had the right idea after all and is now trying to kill him in more creative ways.

The alpha could get anyone he wanted. It’s not like Rhys ever forgot that.

A not-finger strokes between his legs, but doesn’t disturb the long dried slick there. That stopped being disconcerting a long while ago.

He’s a nobody, and he’s going to die here.

The not-finger between his checks strokes more firmly, and his cock begins to fill again, not having learned the lesson yet. Rhys whimpers soundlessly. Too tired to beg for mercy.

He closes his eyes, lets his head fall forward. Doesn’t care about the not-fingers massaging the nape of his neck.

The door opens and Rhys surges upwards, as much as the restraints allow.

It’s Jack. Strolling through the office with long strides, hands in his pockets and with a grin wide enough to eat Rhys.

The alpha stops in front of the desk, looks Rhys up and down. “Hiya. Missed me, princess?”

Rhys is crying and he doesn’t even care.

“What, where’s my welcoming committee? You could have at least filled up my glass while I was gone.” The alpha puts a hand on his forehead dramatically. But he’s chuckling, so he’s not mad at Rhys.

Rhys makes a pathetic noise in the back of his throat, drinking up the image of Jack as if he were a bottle of water. He fights against the restraints with everything he has left, trying to get closer to the alpha, trying to inhale his scent—

Something traces over his ear, and he gasps, eyes snapping open.

Jack is gone.

A mournful string of sounds tears out of Rhys’ parched throat, and his eyes search the office frantically, as if Jack might be hiding behind a statue.

But Jack is gone — wasn’t ever here to begin with. There is nothing in the air but the smell of Rhys’ sweat and ugly desperation.

Jack is not coming back. The alpha found something else— _somebody_ else to do, and Rhys was a fool to think he could hold onto this frail and fickle thing with Jack.

At least the alpha didn’t simply airlock him like so many before him.

The touches return, making the pleasure in his body rise rapidly once more.

Rhys gives in and sobs.

* * *

A not-palm tilts his head up.

Rhys doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

“Fuck.”

Jack’s voice.

But Rhys isn’t falling for that one again. Twice was enough.

“Forgot to put in a fail-safe. _Fuck_.”

The not-hands seem warmer this time somehow, and they cradle his face absurdly gently.

Rhys would prefer having them on his hard cock, but this isn’t about what he wants. 

The sensation of the override slipping out of his head is new though, and feels real enough that Rhys’ eyelids flutter open on their own accord.

“You still in there, Rhysie?”

And just like that Rhys knows this is another hallucination.

The alpha has never looked at Rhys like this: concern etched deeply into the skin at the corners of his eyes, his mouth a self-deprecating, thin line. Rhys is not sure why there’s blood on the alpha’s face, how that’s supposed to figure into this fever dream, but logic isn’t something he could rely on for a while now.

The alpha’s scent reaches out to him, surrounds him, combined with gunpowder and the sharp and unpleasant smell of blood. Not his alpha’s blood. Good.

Hallucination or not, the alpha’s aroused, despite his apparent concern.

Rhys tilts his head to the side, considers the hallucination.

He doesn’t lean in when a finger carefully traces over his lips, still skeptical, but then there’s a click, and suddenly the restraints fall away from him.

“Come on, say something, plea— _whoa_!”

With the alpha’s scent urging him on, he surges up and forward, crowding the alpha against the desk, onto it.

Not even everything around him spinning annoyingly can put him off his plan, all of his concentration on the alpha’s face. With heavy limbs he draws himself up, growls when his hands and legs fail to support him.

“Okay, alright, I get it! Let me—”

Warm palms on his hips, steadying him, and Rhys settles down onto the alpha’s lap, a content purr falling from cracked lips. It’s good, but not enough. He leans forward, licks over the alpha’s temple, his cheek, his chin, trying to get the blood, the wrong smell, off of his alpha.

“Stop that,” the alpha commands, one of his hands settling on Rhys’ shoulder, trying to push him away. “I don’t want you catching anything from the Pandoran scum.”

Rhys growls at the disruption. His metal arm snaps forward, taking hold of the alpha’s hand, easily drawing it down between their bodies.

The alpha exhales sharply, saying yet more useless things, his words rolling off of Rhys’ brain like drops of oil. 

Rhys hums against the alpha’s now clean cheek, satisfied by his work. He nuzzles closer, breathing in deeply their mingling scents.

It smells right.

It’s still not enough.

There’s an ache inside of him, deep down, and in his cock. He mumbles something, both hands tearing at the alpha’s belt until it rips open.

It barely takes any effort to reveal the alpha’s hardened length, and suddenly Rhys’ mouth isn’t dry any longer. He licks his lips, lining his prize up with his unbearably empty hole, mindless of the dried and flaking slick between his cheeks.

“Rhysie, stop. You’re not— You’re going to hurt yourself. _Rhys_.”

Rhys sinks down onto the alpha’s cock, impaling himself. It _hurts_ , burns worse than his wrist or his throat.

A blissful sigh falls from his open mouth as he comes, his cock pulsing between them, and he falls into black nothingness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy New Year! may 2k19 be kind to you & your dear ones.

He doesn’t know what happened or where he is.

At first, he doesn’t even know his own name.

That’s alarming enough for him to force his eyes open, something he’s sure shouldn’t be quite this difficult.

He’s in a very small, dark room, and for a second he’s convinced he’s in an oven. But it’s just harmless reddish lights flickering on black walls playing tricks on his sluggish brain and he relaxes again.

“Hey,” a voice says carefully, close to his ear, almost hesitant. “How’re you feeling?”

Rhys thinks about that for a moment. Then a bit longer. He’s so tired. “Dunno.” It actually takes him more than one try to lift his head up, and ah, away from Jack’s shoulder.

He’s sitting in Jack’s lap, his legs propped up underneath him on either side of Jack, pressed into a soft bed that seems to take up the entire room. Jack’s sitting on the edge of the bed, legs firmly on the ground, keeping Rhys up and close.

Their eyes meet and Rhys blinks a couple of times.

Jack gives him a hesitant half-smile, something weirdly fragile about its edges. “That’s not really an answer.”

Rhys frowns, but thinking seems impossible right now. He breathes in deeply before focusing on his body, somehow already knowing he’s going to regret it. He hisses, immediately proven right. Everything aches, even the tips of his hair.

“I got you, I got you,” Jack says urgently, shushing him and rubbing soothing circles on Rhys’ bare back.

Oh. 

Rhys is pretty sure he was wearing a top earlier. Wasn’t he?

He leans back, loses the tight and tense hold he had on Jack’s shoulder a second after he realises he was hanging onto him for dear life. A bit embarrassed, Rhys distracts himself with an inventory check. It’s not just his top that’s gone missing. He’s naked, and doesn’t really know how that happened. Or when, for that matter. 

Jack’s not wearing his vest or jeans anymore, and his white shirt is hanging off of his shoulder, only one arm free, as if he had to give up on undressing himself halfway through. Apart from that he’s still woefully overdressed. 

The skin between Rhys’ thighs is slightly wet. With water, going by the lack of smell, and not with… not with something else. Rhys tries his best to ignore the fierce ache between his cheeks, and stares at his hands instead, now curled in his lap.

There’s an angry-looking, red and black bruise around his left wrist. He turns his wrist this and that way, fascinated by the angry-looking pattern of it. Rhys pokes it without thinking about it, hisses when the ache flares up sharly, feeling oddly betrayed.

“Hey, careful.” Jack takes his hands, holds them palm open.

Idly, Rhys watches Jack while he inspects the bruise, emotions flashing over his face faster than Rhys can put a name to them. 

Jack stiffens when he notices Rhys’ attention, masks it quickly with another half-smile, even faker than the one before. “Now that you’ve released me from your clutches, we can finally do something about that.” He leans back and, to Rhys’ horror, away. “Just lemme—”

“No!” Rhys doesn’t care how shrill his voice sounds. “Don’t leave!” He grips Jack’s arms desperately, suddenly and inexplicably afraid.

He doesn’t want to examine the thought, but he knows something awful will happen if Jack leaves him alone.

Jack winces, as if Rhys just punched him. He takes a deep breath, frees one of his hands but leaves Rhys the other one. “It’s okay, princess. I already got what you need right here.”

Rhys is pretty sure what he needs right now is Jack, but he bites down on those words, clutching Jack’s arm close to his chest.

With a heavy sigh, Jack leans to the side, almost contorting himself to reach one of the nightstands.

The water bottle he throws hits the bed next to Rhys’ thigh, and Rhys eyes it hungrily, only now becoming aware just how thirsty he is. He doesn’t dare to let go of Jack’s hand though.

Groaning, Jack leans in again, two small tubes in his hand, medical-looking in nature.

“See? You’re here, I’m here. Everything’s okay. Now drink.”

It’s an order, and now that it’s becoming clear that Jack isn’t leaving him, Rhys has the water bottle open and at his lips before Jack has finished speaking.

“ _Slowly_ ,” Jack says, touching Rhys’ neck, and Rhys growls unhappily but relents.

He inhales half of the bottle before his stomach begins to feel weird and he stops. Despite the clear and refreshing water, his mouth tastes like blood, and he’s not sure why.

Jack takes the water bottle from his hands wordlessly, closing it again. He must have opened one of the tubes while Rhys was distracted, because there’s a thick, herbal smell in the air.

Rhys makes a face, watches wordlessly while Jack takes his left wrist and begins to gently apply the salve to the abraded skin there. He almost tears his arm away at the first touch, because it stings, but Jack holds him fast, and after a moment, a pleasant numbness spreads from Jack’s ministrations.

“‘s nice,” Rhys manages to murmur between pleased sighs.

“Better be,” Jack says distractedly, massaging the salve in with both of his hands, fingers moving slow and meticulously. “It’s the good and expensive stuff.”

Humming, Rhys watches him work.

Jack has nice fingers. Long and strong and capable. It’s a bit of a surprise to Rhys that he doesn’t want them inside of him right now, but maybe the ache between his cheeks can only be ignored so much.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now.”

A finger taps his drooping chin, and Rhys complains quietly. Now he has the salve’s smell almost right in his nose. Disgruntled, he rubs at his chin with his prosthetic.

The tilt of Jack’s lips looks almost natural, but there’s a terseness to his voice when he says, “turn around.” He pats one of Rhys’ asschecks with one palm, still so weirdly gentle. “I need to reach my favourite part of you.”

Frowning, Rhys shakes his head even before he fully comprehends Jack’s words. He leans forward quickly, buries his nose in the crook of Jack’s neck, draws his arms around Jack’s back once more. “No,” he tells Jack’s skin firmly, just in case he’s not made himself clear enough.

Jack chuckles quietly, presses his lips against Rhys’ temple. “Gotcha, little octopus.” He fumbles with something on Rhys’ right side, and then the air is filled with another herbal scent.

Rhys makes a noise of complaint, and tries his best to fill his lungs with nothing but Jack. Absently, he sucks on Jack’s skin, because he might as well while he’s here. It’s helps a little with the persistent taste of blood on his tongue.

“Up,” Jack says, delivering another too careful slap to Rhys’ side.

He complies, but not without grumbling. Getting his legs more firmly underneath him and pressing himself up is a lot harder than he expects. He feels heavy, as if he’s acting under terribly calibrated gravity. And with his ass in the air, it’s impossible the ignore the sharp sting inside of him. He’s been fucked sore before — just ask Jack — but he can’t remember the last time he felt this… raw. He whines, presses himself more firmly against Jack’s shirt. “Hurts.”

Jack starts applying the salve inside of him, steady and careful, holding Rhys still with his other hand on Rhys’ hip. He’s quiet for a very long moment, long enough that Rhys begins to feel antsy, and starts to squirm. “I know,” he says finally, sounding rough and slow, like the words are being dragged out of him. “You were bleeding.”

Oh. That would explain the rawness. “Sorry.” He doesn’t really know why he feels the need to apologise, but he’s pretty sure this wasn’t what Jack meant with them having fun tonight. How long ago was that? Is it even still tonight?

A sharp inhale, and then Jack’s pressing his forehead against Rhys’ temple hard enough to be uncomfortable. “Don’t apologise,” he hisses, calming his tone instantly when that makes Rhys whimper. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

On Rhys’ hip, Jack’s fingers twitch restlessly. Rhys nods into the crook of Jack’s neck, tries to relax as much as he can. It helps that his ass is already smarting less. More of the good and expensive stuff, it seems. “‘kay.”

When Jack’s done Rhys all but collapses against him, and together they fall onto the soft bedding, their legs tangled with each other over the edge of the bed. He snuggles closer, draping himself completely over a chuckling Jack. 

Jack begins shuffling underneath him, trying to get his shirt off. He snorts. “Please, don’t try to make this any easier for me.”

Rhys decides to listen to him and doesn’t move even an inch.

It takes Jack quite some effort, going by all the huffing, and when he’s done, he throws the garment somewhere behind Rhys. “Of all the times to finally do what I say…” He trails off, arms settling loosely around Rhys’ back.

On a roll, Rhys decides not to examine that too closely. He makes himself more comfortable, snuggles closer. Even naked with all of his back exposed, Rhys feels warm, content.

Protected.

Something occurs to him, and he sniffs unhappily.

“Jack?” he asks in a small voice.

A questioning sound ruffles past his ear.

“I don’t think I can go to work tomorrow.” He screws up his nose, considers how late he got to Jack’s office and the large time span after he doesn’t want to examine too closely right now. “I mean today?” He would check in with ECHOeye, but even thinking about activating it makes him want to cry a bit. Still, admitting his weakness makes him feel awful. He always rolls his eyes when people call in sick after their birthdays or other parties. It’s just so _obvious_. 

But he really does feel like he won’t be able to move for at least a year.

An amused huff ghosts over his temple, followed by lips pressing against the skin there. “I’m sure your boss will be understanding. Now go to sleep, kiddo. That’s an order.” The strong arms around Rhys tighten. “I’ve got you,” Jack says, voice thick with something that almost sounds like a promise to Rhys’ ears.

Rhys lets his eyes fall shut fully, a tired smile settling on his mouth.

Blindly, he trails his lips over Jack’s chin, seeking Jack’s mouth. The kiss tastes like blood, stale coffee and a long, long day.

It tastes like an apology, only sweeter.

Rhys’ll never be able to tell Vaughn and Yvette about this, but it’s the best birthday present he ever got.

* * *

No, wait, scratch that. It’s the worst birthday present he ever got.

Rhys wakes up some indeterminate amount of time later and regrets it immediately.

Every muscle in his body hurts, almost like that one time he joined Vaughn on the treadmill and refused to stop before Vaughn did. Not exactly one of his smartest moments, he will admit.

He groans, the pitiful noise muffled by the hard pillow he’s lying on.

The hard pillow smells like Jack, which by itself isn’t too off-putting, but it’s also hairy and moving slightly. Confused, Rhys lifts his head — ouch — and blinks his eyes open.

He’s still lying on top of Jack, covering him like the least efficient blanket that ever existed. His uncomfortable pillow turns out to be Jack’s chest, and Rhys rubs at his bleary eyes. It’s a nice chest, admittedly. Followed by a thick and also nice throat, followed by...

Jack’s face greets him with a raised eyebrow.

Idly, Rhys considers slapping him, fuck the consequences.

The eyebrow lowers. “Morning.” Jack’s voice is sleep-rough, deep. One corner of his mouth curls up. “Or afternoon, more like it.”

He could do it with his right hand, even. That would probably worsen the consequences but would also make it a lot more satisfying.

He can almost taste the meaty sound of the impact.

“Rhysie?” Jack reaches for him, presses his palm gently against Rhys’ cheek.

Rhys allows the touch for a moment, then draws back and up until he’s sitting on Jack’s lap. Ouch. He inhales shakily, scowls at Jack. “Afternoon.” His voice sounds like somebody stepped on it. Repeatedly. He can feel the scowl deepen.

Jack raises himself up on his elbows, almost like he’s following Rhys. “How’re—”

“If you ask me how I’m feeling,” Rhys says calmly, places his right palm onto Jack’s chest, and presses him back down. “I _will_ make you regret it.”

“I see.” Amusement sparks in Jack’s eyes, and Rhys’ fingers itch with the need for violence. “Well, if that’s the case…” His eyes trail to the side, settling on something over Rhys’ shoulder. “I’m sure you can find your way out.”

Disbelievingly, Rhys turns his head. Sure enough, Jack’s looking at the door of this little bedroom.

Forget about slapping Jack. If Rhys is quick enough, he might be able to wrap his hand around Jack’s neck and snap it.

The urge comes and goes, replaced by the realisation that Jack simply doesn’t care about how Rhys feels. It seeps into his bones like lead. Sure, Jack’ll kill a couple of people, put on a show to scare Vasquez off, but it’s not because he was afraid for Rhys’ life.

He was probably just miffed somebody almost beat him to it.

The last bit of energy he was holding onto through sheer fury alone drains away immediately, and to his horror Rhys can feel wetness gathering in his eyes.

As quickly as his aching body allows he moves away from Jack, curls into himself. “You go,” he tells the actual pillow sternly, presses his face into it more firmly when his voice betrays him and wobbles slightly. “Just leave me here to die and send somebody in to clean up in a couple of days.”

Rhys is only half-kidding. That should probably be at least a little bit horrifying, but he’s too tired even for that.

There’s movement to his left, some shuffling.

Rhys likes to imagine that the shift of air he feels on his back is Jack’s hand hovering over it, about to touch and comfort him.

But what he hears next are the sounds of somebody getting up, bare feet on the floor, so that was definitely just Rhys’ imagination getting the better of him.

The door opening and closing is the worst kind of validation, and Rhys takes a shuddering inhale, stops instantly when all that gets him is a noseful of the combined scents of him and Jack. And here he thought he couldn’t feel any worse.

With a furious noise crawling up the back of his throat he hits the bed with a closed fist, does it again even though he’s pretty sure this is hurting him more than the bed.

It doesn’t even make him feel any better, is the thing. There’s something dark and heavy in his chest, pulling him down and down and down with no end in sight.

He laughs hollowly.

Because it feels like a drop, and isn’t that just fucking perfect? Jack doesn’t even have to knot him and throw him out while his sweat is still drying on Rhys’ skin for that to happen anymore.

When the laugh suddenly turns into a sob Rhys bites his tongue and swallows until he hears nothing but his own shallow breathing.

At least he isn’t cold, so he probably won’t freeze to death.

He must actually doze off at some point, because the door sliding open again startles him badly enough to turn his head towards the sound, sharp sting of pain be damned.

Jack is back.

He took the time to put on boxer shorts, and he’s holding two bottles and something that looks suspiciously like snacks.

Like he’s planning on making himself comfortable and watch while Rhys wastes away in misery next to him. 

Sniffling, Rhys presses his face back into the pillow. “Go away! I’m not dead yet.” Maybe he can smother himself with it, and die with at least a miniscule amount of his dignity still intact.

An amused huff is the only warning Rhys has before Jack’s body flops down next to him, jostling him. 

“Far be it from me to criticise you, but don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic?”

And that’s just rich coming from Handsome Jack himself. It’s so rich in fact that Rhys forgets for a moment how miserable he is. He turns his head to the side, facing Jack. “ _You’re_ dramatic.”

Jack smirks winningly. “Ah, so you’ve decided to learn from the master himself. Smart, kiddo, very smart.” He dangles a water bottle in front of Rhys’ face. “How about you continue being smart, press pause on your melodramatics, and get some fluids into your system.”

Rhys’ eyes the open bottle, then Jack.

Alright, so maybe Jack isn’t a completely unrepentant asshole.

The dangling intensifies, as does the smirk. “Though if you’d prefer some _other_ kind of fluid…”

With a snort, Rhys grabs the bottle. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, and tries to hide the smile sneaking up on him by taking some quick gulps.

Just the regular kind of asshole then.

Rhys hadn’t realised how thirsty he was, and even though lying on his front makes every swallow slightly awkward, he has to consciously slow down.

Out of the corner of his eyes he can’t help but notice that Jack’s watching him the entire time.

Chin propped up on one hand, Jack looks perfectly relaxed, and there isn’t even anything lascivious about the way his eyes are tracking each little movement of Rhys’ throat.

Weird. But Rhys is getting more of the very tasty and probably very expensive water out of it, so he isn’t going to complain.

Once he’s done, Rhys lets out a loud and content sigh. His head falls back into the fluffy embrace of the pillow, and he holds the now empty bottle out in Jack’s direction.

Jack takes it from him with a quiet noise of approval, and sets it on the nightstand, going by the muted thud.

Rhys isn’t sure if he wants Jack to leave again or if he wants him to stay. On the one hand, Rhys still feels like shit, and Jack staying stands in direct contrast to Rhys’ desire to wither away in peace. On the other hand, it’s entirely Jack’s fault that Rhys feels this way, so if Jack somehow has it in himself to try and make up for that to Rhys, Rhys should probably at least give him a chance, right?

He’s still trying to make up his mind when Jack pokes him with a foot. “You hungry?”

His stomach is full of water, and he isn’t quite sure he’s up to the daunting task of eating yet. He shakes his head in answer.

“Alright,” Jack says, but doesn’t sound too happy about it. “Tell me when you change your mind. These little wonders might be from some backwater planet, but they taste amazing and just a few of them give you the nutrients of an entire breakfast.”

Curious despite himself, Rhys opens one eye. The ‘little wonders’ look like barely formed lumps of red dough. Any other day Rhys might have been tempted to analyse their compounds, but he really doesn’t need a headache on top of everything else right now. Less than impressed, Rhys makes a vaguely affirmative noise in the back of his throat and lets his eye fall shut again. 

A sigh, veering off into frustrated. “Suit yourself.”

A moment of tense silence, and then…

Rhys almost snorts.

Obnoxiously loud chewing noises, further amplified by the smallness of the room. 

As if that would somehow change Rhys’ mind.

Despite the aching terseness in his muscles, and the lingering heaviness in his heart, Rhys finds himself relaxing.

It’s… nice, actually. To be with Jack without the frantic urgency of sex for once. If Rhys would press his eyes together really hard right now and tilt his head just so, he could almost pretend what they have is normal.

The fantasy is so nice that Rhys begins to doze off again.

A sudden click has him awake in an instant, heartbeat racing, even though he realises it wasn’t mechanical in nature.

It takes mobilising the meagre rest of his willpower not to turn towards the sound and see what Jack is up to this time.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to wait long in suspense, because a new smell reaches his nose; a mixture of something very sweet, and something else. 

Curious, Rhys tilts his head to see what is producing the smell, but in his defense, his willpower has taken a really big hit recently.

“Ah, it lives!” Jack declares, his lips an attractive upward curve. “Feel free to keep being an uncooperative glum sack of meat and bones while I do my thing.”

That probably doesn’t bode well for Rhys, but he’s only half listening anyway. He’s much more interested in whatever that substance on Jack’s hands is - it looks thick, gel-like, a striking dark grey in colour, and smells a bit like minerals mixed with candy.

“I knew these twins once who could accomplish criminally good things to you with this stuff. Probably illegal on most planets.” He chuckles. “Not that I ever bothered to check.” Jack takes the orange bottle, logo hidden behind his large palm, and pours more of the gel into his hands. He wrinkles his nose. “Pity I had to kill them”, Jack says distractedly. “I just don’t take too kindly to being drugged and sold out to some wannabe headhunter. It’s a character fault of mine.”

That’s not a story Rhys can recall ever having heard before, and he takes pride in being able to recite the Heroic Documentary ECHOs word for word.

“What did you do?” he asks quietly, curiosity settling pleasantly in his stomach.

Jack leans forward, corners of his mouth curling up and up and up. “Added a little something to their personal stock. A little spice if you will.” He clicks his tongue, voice lowering. “From the pictures it looked like they mauled each other to death with nothing but their fingernails. Pretty cool, yeah?”

Rhys nods slowly, a soft exhale falling from his lips.

“But don’t worry.” Jack winks at him, murderous aura vanishing from his demeanor as if it had never been there to begin with. “This,” he says, wriggling his grey goo-smeared hands, “is just the pure and very good stuff. No ugly surprises.” With a terribly exaggerated eyebrow waggle, he nods his chin at Rhys. “Only very good ones.”

Sniffing, Rhys makes a skeptical noise.

Jack resorts to wheedling. “And I checked up on your medical records. You’re not one of the unlucky few who are deathly allergic to this substance. Hooray for you, Rhysie!” He leans up onto his knees, scoots backwards and makes space in the middle of the bed. He’s staring at Rhys with wide eyes now; probably trying for earnest but ending up in unsettling territory. “Just lay back, think of me and _relax_.”

Well, looks like Rhys will just have to — hah — trust him on that while Jack takes Rhys’ life into his hands. Literally this time, apparently.

Sighing heavily, Rhys gives in. He shuffles closer to Jack, taking the pillow he’s still hugging with him. His body signals him very clearly throughout the endeavor that moving is an awful idea and that he shouldn’t do it again any time soon. “Go on.” Wincing, he blinks at Jack expectantly. “Dazzle me.”

Jack leans forward with a triumphant sound before Rhys has finished speaking, Jack’s legs settling on either side of his hips.

Then Jack’s hands are on Rhys’ back, and his fingers start kneading, and Rhys almost bucks Jack off of him, too startled to scream.

It hurts, stings in a way that goes deeper than his skin.

“Just give it a second,” Jack says, probably aiming for soothing and failing.

Rhys has just decided to tell Jack to stop, when the sting changes into something warmly tingling, and very, very pleasing. “Oh,” he murmurs dumbly into the pillow.

“See?” Jack coos into his ear. “Would I ever do you wrong?”

Snorting, Rhys slaps blindly behind himself and at Jack with his metal hand which thankfully doesn’t ache. Another clear point for cybernetics.

“Hey!” Indignant, Jack digs his fingers even more firmly into Rhys’ flesh, trailing the now torturously good touch down Rhys’ back. “That’s not how you repay somebody doing you a favour.”

“You forgot to implement a failsafe,” Rhys hisses back, the amount of venom in the words surprising even himself.

He can practically _feel_ Jack opening his mouth to deflect with some bullshit or other, and Rhys realises that he’s not done yet.

“You forgot to implement a failsafe,” he repeats, deathly calm now. “In a program specifically designed to immobilise and titillate somebody to their limits.” It’s a mistake that speaks either of immense carelessness or arrogance or a potentially deadly combination of both. If Rhys had made a mistake like this in university, he would have been kicked out the door before he could mutter an embarrassed _oops_?.

Predictably, Jack doesn’t apologise.

But neither does he try to defend himself, instead doubling down on his efforts of massaging the grey creme into Rhys’ aching muscles.

Rhys would really like to look at Jack’s face right now, because while Jack’s face is a mask — yes, literally as well — his eyes are another matter. It seems too much effort though, for something that might just end up disappointing him.

When Jack’s hands reach the scarred tissue of his right shoulder, Rhys has to bite his tongue to keep from moaning, attuned and sensitive to every touch. Thankfully Jack doesn’t spend too much time there; maybe noticing Rhys tensing up.

But when Jack gently takes Rhys’ left hand and begins to diligently rub every finger individually, Rhys gives up on fuming quietly, and lets the appreciative sighs and other noises fall from his parted lips.

Rhys always knew he liked Jack’s big hands for a good reason.

Once done with Rhys’ hand and arm, leaving them tingling happily, he moves onto Rhys’ backside. Again, Rhys tenses, because while he’s on his way there, he has definitely not forgiven Jack enough for that yet.

But Jack seems intent on surprising him. His touch remains gentle, and almost professional, and his fingers trail down the backside of Rhys’ legs without even a gentle pat to a cheek.

Interesting. Seems like Jack isn’t immune to some guilt-tripping. Maybe he can be taught yet not to be too much of a regular asshole.

To reward Jack’s behaviour, Rhys does moan when both of Jack’s hands focus their attention on his left leg, kneading away at the aching muscles with firm strength.

Before Jack reaches Rhys’ other leg, Rhys somehow forgets how awful he felt not half an hour ago, and even to be mad at Jack. 

It’s just too easy to slip into the much more pleasant mindset of being taken care of by Jack. Jack, who is a powerful alpha, always so busy with Helios and Hyperion, but who’s now focusing all of his attention on making Rhys feel good.

Yeah, it’s no wonder his brain decides to take a break, leaving Rhys to feel everything that much more intense with every part of his body.

Who knew his toes could be so sensitive?

With the soreness almost completely gone, and Jack’s talented fingers having him squirming by now, even if he wanted to, he doesn’t have it in him to resist when those same talented fingers begin to turn him around.

Rhys’ arms flop uselessly to the side, and he blinks slowly, focusing his vision. He doesn’t usually get to see Jack like this, without layers upon layers covering him up. There are fine scars on his upper body, leftovers from the dangerous battles he fought and won. His hair is still tousled from sleep, looking soft and tempting, especially the now errand grey lock Jack usually keeps styled out of the way. If Rhys could just convince his hands to move, he’d like nothing more than to reach out and touch it, but simply enjoying the rare view will have to be enough. Rhys smiles. “Hi, Jack.”

Any other time, the self-satisfaction that unfurls Jack’s lips would have Rhys rolling his eyes.

Right now, though? Even that makes Jack just look more attractive and approachable.

“Hi, yourself,” Jack says, voice low and promising. “Enjoying yourself?”

Humming, Rhys watches while Jack puts more of the creme into his hands.

When Jack’s hands settle on Rhys’ chest, fingers spreading out, Rhys arches up into them like a very hairless cat.

An amused huff. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He continues massaging Rhys’ chest, occasionally flicks a nipple to watch Rhys squirm for him.

Rhys can feel his cock trying to harden, and he hisses, squeezes his eyes shut.

Jack’s leaning over him instantly, his breath warm on Rhys’ face. “What is it?” he asks quietly but urgent. “Where are you still hurting?”

And any other time, Rhys might not have done this, not been this direct and demanding, but if Jack is offering, why not take him up on it?

He grabs one of Jack’s hands with his prosthetic, brings it down and curls it around his heated cock. “Sore,” he murmurs pitifully.

Jack winces in sympathy, then smirks at him. “Not something you’re unfamiliar with, eh?” He stops Rhys’ pouting by getting on with the program and working the creme into Rhys’ cock with agonising, firm and long strokes.

Rhys’ mouth falls open around a silent groan, his toes digging into the bedding. “Used to be permanently horny during puberty.” He laughs breathlessly, his hips bucking up into Jack’s touch. “And when I got the cybernetics, there was suddenly an entirely new hand I could pleasure myself with.”

Growling in appreciation, Jack leans even closer, pupils blown and as black as the walls surrounding them. “Kinky.” His other hand settles on Rhys’ throat, curling around and holding it.

Rhys is coming before he even realises it, his cock spurting over Jack’s hand.

And Jack keeps pumping him through his orgasm, keeps working him until Rhys is clutching at him with both hands, probably hard enough to bruise, small, helpless sounds falling from Rhys’ mouth.

He lets up from Rhys just before the stimulation becomes too much, and Rhys lies there, a panting, sweating mess, only able to stare up at Jack’s face.

Jack strokes over his throat with hooded eyes, gently following the circles of his tattoo, and Rhys shivers. He leans down, presses his face against the other side of Rhys’ thoat, his mouth against Rhys’ skin. “Happy belated Birthday, Rhys.”

After lazily drawing his hand through Jack’s hair, Rhys carefully curls the grey lock around his index finger, smiling until his cheeks ache.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack leaves, but not before assuring Rhys that he’ll be back right away.

This time Rhys doesn’t worry about believing Jack, and rather focuses his attention on the other bottle Jack had brought with him, and pushed into Rhys’ hands right before leaving. It has a heavy flavour, burns his throat with every swallow, and is probably way too expensive to be consumed straight from the bottle.

Rhys really doesn’t care about proper alcohol etiquette right now.

He drinks a quarter of the bottle, and then tries out one of the ‘little wonders’. Despite the unsettling red colour, they really do taste amazing, flavours chasing over his tongue faster than he can put a name on them. He eats two more of them, and then flops back down onto his back, full and sated and feeling almost criminally good.

In the next instant cold panic shivers down his back.

He was in such a hurry earlier that he forgot to leave his friends a message, fully expecting to be back before they could notice his absence, and he has no idea what time it is right now.

Shit. Shitshitshit. Hurriedly, Rhys activates his ECHOeye and palm comp, hoping against all odds that Vaughn and Yvette overslept and are only now getting up, that maybe he’s not too late yet to avoid the worst—

Apparently just to spite him, the ECHO display informs him of 21 new messages and 38 missed calls extra cheerily.

Great. Apparently Rhys didn’t forget to turn off automatic-notifications when he left.

Coward that he is, he doesn’t look at any of the messages, instead opening a new one.

If he doesn’t formulate this very carefully, his friends are going to know something is up, and no matter the consequences, Rhys has no doubt they would somehow fight their way right into this office if they thought Rhys needed rescuing from Handsome Jack’s clutches.

Which is a flattering thought, yes, but really doesn’t help with the panic squirming inside his stomach right now. Rhys doesn’t need any rescuing from Jack’s clutches. At least not anymore, and definitely not right now.

He types up some words, and deletes everything again several times until he settles for a simple:

_Jack’s giving me several birthday presents, don’t know when I’ll be back. sorry for forgetting to leave a note, please don’t be mad!!!_

It’s probably not going to spare him from their scolding, but he might as well try.

He lies back down, exhaling long and hard. Wipes his sweaty palm off of the covers. 

Won’t hurt to take another couple of sips from that bottle, right?

Once it’s half-empty, Rhys’ nerves have calmed down again, and he finally notices that he has come smeared all over his groin.

Rhys makes a face, and slides off the bed. He’s already taken one step towards to door when he realises that he’s completely naked, and turns around again. Opening one drawer at random reveals multiple boxershorts in different colours. Jack’s boxershorts. He hesitates only for a moment before deciding on and slipping into a Hyperion-yellow one.

Still not quite feeling up to leaving the small and secure bedroom, he grabs the blanket off of the floor and wraps it around himself.

Bracing himself, he slides the door open a bit, and peeks out. There’s only Jack though, in his underwear, leaning with one hip against his desk, mouth moving.

Rhys inhales and steps out of the bedroom, turns his head quickly before his eyes can fall on the chair.

If he’s not completely off, going by the statues in front of him right now, the bathroom should be somewhere to his left… yes! He slips into it hurriedly, sure that he can feel Jack looking at him the entire time.

He relieves himself, but decides against taking a shower. He smells of the creme, of minerals, but mainly of Jack, and he really doesn’t want to change that right now.

He washes his hands, puts his wet fingers in the mess he calls his hair, but only succeeds in making it worse.

Frustrated, he tries to blow an errand lock of hair out of his eyes.

It falls right back down, and Rhys leaves the bathroom with a grumble. He doesn’t look in Jack’s direction, just heads right for the fairly well-hidden bedroom door and closes it behind himself again.

He lets the blanket slide from his shoulders, and then tries to take up as much space as he can on the entire width of the bed with a content sigh.

What if Jack changes his mind and tells him to leave after all?

Rhys shakes his head angrily, fills his lungs with their mingled scents until his thoughts become distant and dreamy again.

Jack knew it was his birthday yesterday. He knew the entire time. And even if his first attempt at a present is something Rhys will do his very best to block out in the future, his second attempt was all about Rhys’ comfort and pleasure only.

It was great, but that doesn’t mean Rhys can’t hope for more, right?

Rhys grins to himself, stretches his limbs until there are several worrying noises. 

Vaughn likes to tell Rhys that he can be very greedy sometimes. Maybe he isn’t completely wrong about that.

The door slides open again, and Rhys blinks his eyes open, feeling drowsy.

Jack slowly crawling over him on all fours has him awake immediately though.

“Don’t remember allowing you to get dressed,” Jack says with a raised eyebrow. 

Rhys looks at him, mock-concerned. “That’s really too bad.” He stretches his arms up over his head, spreads his legs and grins lazily. “You going to do anything about it?”

Growling, Jack slips one of his fingers between Rhys’ skin and the boxershorts. He mirrors Rhys’ grin. “Mouthy, aren’t you? I should put you in your place.”

Humming thoughtfully, Rhys slips his right hand into the back of Jack’s boxershorts, enjoys it quite a lot when the coolness of the metal digits make Jack shiver. “I wish you would, but all I can see moving is your mouth.”

Jack lets out a short, loud cackle, then lunges into action; he yanks Rhys’ right arm up, grabs both of Rhys’ wrists with one hand while his other tears at the boxershorts, and for once it’s not Rhys’ clothing that will suffer from Jack’s rough handling.

Rhys laughs, probably hampering Jack’s attempt at undressing him with his squirming, and not minding at all.

Once Rhys is naked, Jack tears off his own boxershorts, but not without a fatal sounding tearing noise. Suits him right; Rhys should really forward some of his tailor bills to Jack one of these days.

With a growl, Jack settles on top of him, big and glorious and naked, and this is exactly what Rhys needs right now.

He licks his lips, arches up against Jack, and the hold Jack has on his wrists shifts slightly, his thumb accidentally digging into the bruise circling Rhys’ left wrist, and Rhys…

Rhys locks up completely, acidic panic filling up his bones. “Wait, stop.” His voice sounds _awful_ , shrill.

Jack stops rolling his hips against Rhys’ instantly, and Rhys is so grateful he’s sure he’s going to cry.

He inhales shakily, eyes squeezed shut, and he might just cry anyway, because the panic is just getting _worse_ , because he’s back in the chair, trapped, helpless, and— “Let go, please, _move_!”

His hands are free in the next instant, Jack’s warm weight on top of him gone.

Rhys scrambles back, his prosthetic holding his other wrist without touching the bruise. He looks at Jack with wide eyes, completely at a loss.

Jack’s sitting on his knees, arms tense at his side. He’s staring at Rhys, at this hands. The expression on his face changes from anger, to something almost helpless, back to anger. With a grimace, he meets Rhys’ eyes again. “Rhys,” he says, only to stop again with a quiet curse.

Like Rhys he seems to be completely at a loss as to what to say or do, and you know what?

No. 

This is bullshit. 

Rhys wants mind-blowingly good sex _now_ , and he’s not letting anything ruin that for him. Not even himself.

With a growl of frustration, Rhys shakes his head, grateful when the frustration seems to wash the panic away. “Let’s switch places.” He can’t quite manage to turn that into a question, but Jack doesn’t complain; he scoots up and lies down on his back wordlessly. 

His eyes stay on Rhys the entire time, a fine line between his eyebrows, as if he’s afraid Rhys might bolt.

Pointedly, Rhys makes himself comfortable on Jack hips, ass on Jack’s softening cock.

Great job, Rhys, completely ruining the mood.

Jack’s doesn’t even dare to reach out and touch him, his arms lying carefully at his sides, but Rhys doesn’t ask him to.

He just needs a moment to get his head back into the game, to shake off this stupid and irrational fear. Rhys is not in that chair anymore, and if he has any say in it he won’t ever sit down on it again.

But just like he has trouble willing it away when it makes an appearance at inopportune moments, Rhys can’t just will an erection into existence. With a sigh of frustration Rhys lets himself fall forward, hides his face in the crook of Jack’s neck. “I’m not sitting in your chair again,” he tells Jack mulishly, instead of all the other things he could, and probably should say.

Jack doesn’t answer, body tense underneath Rhys, and that doesn’t help _at all_.

Rhys pokes him in the shoulder, none too gently. “Touch me.” No wonder Jack is always ordering everybody around. It feels good.

Hesitantly, Jack curls one arm around Rhys’ shoulder, lax, so that Rhys wouldn’t even have to put any effort into shaking him off. He lets out a long breath. “I don’t think _anybody_ will ever sit in that chair again.” His voice sounds comfortingly normal. “You’ve ruined it, Rhysie. Couldn’t smell anything but you, even three steps away from it.”

Sniffing, Rhys allows a small smile to steal over his lips. “I fail to see how that is a problem.”

Jack’s entire chest heaves with laughter, and Rhys relax into the vibrations of it. “I knew you’d say that.” He draws his hand through Rhys’ hair, and seeing as it’s in ruins anyway, Rhys lets himself fully enjoy the touch. “Which is why the expenses of getting a new one will go from your next couple of paychecks.”

Rhys sits up immediately, scandalised and more than prepared to give Jack a piece of his mind.

Only Jack is laughing again, apparently at Rhys this time, his eyes closed and the long line of his throat exposed.

Licking his lips, Rhys takes the sight in greedily. When he’s had enough of being laughed at, he draws his fingernails harshly down Jack’s chest, over one nipple.

With a hiss, Jack tries to arch away, then into the sensation. He looks at Rhys with dark eyes, his mouth settling into a familiar smirk. “You brought your claws, kitten? How considerate of you.”

Rhys purrs, flashing him a smile. “Not just my claws.” He leans forward once more, licks over the clasp on Jack’s chin. The metallic taste settles heavy on his tongue, and he purrs again. “I hope you can handle my teeth, old man.” He settles his lips on Jack’s chin and bites down. The material of Jack’s mask can probably take it. He hopes.

Jack curses, his fingers tightentening in Rhys’ hair. He doesn’t try to tear Rhys off of him though, merely holds him right there.

Once he’s satisfied, Rhys licks at the underside of Jack’s chin, where the bottom row of his teeth had burrowed in just seconds ago, and Jack tastes so good, Rhys wants to eat him, always have a part of the alpha inside of him.

Whining, Rhys rolls his hips, rubbing his filling cock against Jack’s stomach. He’s delighted when Jack’s cock drags wetly over the inside of his thighs, the interest definitely mutual.

When Jack’s other palm settles on his hip, Rhys grabs it, and presses it down onto the bed with a slowly unfurling grin.

Chuckling, Jack releases his hold on Rhys’ hair, lets Rhys press that hand into the bedding as well.

Rhys leans back up, his hips never stopping their slow movements. Having Jack underneath him and at his mercy is a heady feeling, and Rhys isn’t sure if it’s that power or the alcohol that’s making him dizzy.

“I did say we would switch positions.” He presses Jack’s hands down once, to make sure Jack gets the message, then trails his fingers slowly down Jack’s hairy arms.

Making a noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, Jack lies still, but the muscles in his arms flex ever so slightly.

 _Showoff_ , Rhys thinks, charmed despite himself.

He really likes those arms; how they move him around so surely, hold him up or press him down. Rhys treasures the little bruises they sometimes leave on his skin, carries them around like hidden badges.

Rhys had enough time already to appreciate Jack’s talented fingers today, so he moves his attention and his own fingers back to Jack’s chest.

Jack is so _hairy_. Rhys would die if he ever let himself go like this, but he can’t imagine Jack without the dark mat. He amuses himself by playing with the rough hairs for a bit, by pressing his palms onto Jack’s nipples, and letting Jack warm the metal of his prosthetic.

“Look at you,” Jack says quietly, amusement dripping from every word. “Living the dream and playing with your very own life-sized Handsome Jack doll.” Grinning, he winks at Rhys. “Way better than the one we released all those years ago, eh?”

Rhys taps one finger against his chin, humming thoughtfully while his other hand explores further down. “I’m not sure, actually.” He pats Jack’s soft stomach, smiling sweetly. “The doll was in a better shape if I remember correctly.”

The sheer amount of outrage on Jack’s face is the single best thing Rhys ever did with his entire life, and it’s well worth losing control over.

He’s laughing too hard to pay attention, but when he next comes up for air, he’s lying on his front, pressed firmly into the mattress by Jack’s weight. Rhys has tears in his eyes, and he’s still laughing, albeit more breathless now.

“Take that back,” Jack hisses in his ear, fingers twitching on Rhys’ hips.

Rhys presses his lips together until he has the urge to laugh mostly under control. “Give me a second, I might not be remembering it correctly.”

Of course Rhys remembers the life-sized, limited edition Handsome Jack doll. It would have eaten up all of his savings _and_ most of his next paychecks if Vaughn and Yvette hadn’t put their feet down. No matter how much Rhys begged and pleaded, argued for his case, _it has fully moveable limbs and over a hundred voice-lines_ , they remained adamant; if Rhys bought the creepy sex doll, he might as well look for a new apartment next. And new friends.

Enraged sputtering ghosts past his ear, and Rhys is having a really hard time trying to hold it together. Jack’s cock is wonderfully hard, pressed hot and heavy in between Rhys’ legs, and how’s he supposed to concentrate like this?

“No, wait,” he exclaims. “I remember now!” Rhys bites his lip, but isn’t able to fully contain the giggles from escaping this time. “The doll also had a spectacular eight-pack!”

You see, in retrospect, his friends were absolutely right — not that he ever told them that. The doll looked nothing like Handsome Jack and more like a creepy porno version of him, and was definitely not worth that amount of money.

“You little,” Jack says, but whatever he meant to add to that is lost in a loud snarl. He bites down onto Rhys’ shoulder, hard and angry, and Rhys loses his grin to a long groan.

Jack’s definitely intent on marking him up for that remark, teeth grinding into Rhys flesh, and Rhys moans, reveling in the sharp pain. 

Slick is slowly trickling down Rhys’ hole and over his balls. He humps the bed rather clumsily, whimpers. “Jack, come on, fuck me.”

With a wet lick over the throbbing bite, Jack moves his mouth closer to Rhys’ ear, his palms settling on Rhys’ asscheeks. “Oh, I see how it is,” he says, one thumb slowly pressing into Rhys. “That’s something the shitty doll couldn’t give you, eh, princess?”

The way actual owners of the doll wrote it on the forums, _that_ was actually something the doll was really great at if you didn’t mind riding it all the time. But if Rhys wants to get fucked any time soon, he should keep that comment to himself. Instead he tries to rub himself against Jack’s cock, appeals to his very good friend named Jack’s ego. “No, only you, Jack, only you.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jack says, sounding immensely pleased. Without warning, he presses two fingers into Rhys’ wet hole, prepares him with the almost careless roughness of somebody nearly at the end of their patience.

Rhys doesn’t mind. In fact, this is taking entirely too long for his liking. “Hurry up,” he complains, drawing out the last word. “I need you inside of me preferably some time before my next birthday.”

Jack snorts. “Fine, fine, have it your way.” His voice drops into a dark promise. “Just don’t come complaining to me when you’re sore after, because I’m going to knot you and fill you up until you’re too full to stand up again.” He leans away from Rhys, begins to rummage in the nightstand to their left. “Just let me grab a condom and we’re good to go.”

Even later Rhys won’t know what bit him in that moment. It might have been the long and awful night he had before or Jack trying to surprise him for his birthday and taking care of him so tenderly when that went less than well.

Or it might have been the alcohol talking, yeah.

Because Rhys grabs Jack’s rummaging arm, and says, “Wait!”

Jack stops immediately, his eyes snapping back to Rhys’ face.

He also looks ready to move off of Rhys, and shit, that’s definitely not what Rhys was going for.

Even if it is a rush to know that Jack, no matter how turned on he is right now, and no matter how he’s an asshole alpha extraordinary, will stop without hesitation when Rhys asks him to. Rhys might not be able to trust him in many ways, but he can trust him completely in this. 

It cements the vague notion in his mind even further, the amount of control Jack has over himself. Rhys strokes over Jack’s arm with his thumb, softens his tone. “No. I mean, that’s not what I meant, sorry.”

Jack’s still looking at him with dark eyes, expression tense but blank. Holding himself ready to move away.

Rhys gives up on trying to be smooth, words leaving him in a rush. “Just fuck me without it. The condom, I mean.”

There’s no reaction from Jack. 

Nothing at all, for half of an eternity.

Then his eyes darken even further, and Rhys thinks he might have just fucked up spectacularly.

“I’m going to take a pill right after,” he says quickly. “And I won’t ask for anything else for my next birthday!” If Jack’s even still interested in him then, which seems less and less likely every second.

Jack’s breathing more quickly now, eyes almost completely black. He’s also shaking, and Rhys _knows_ he just fucked up spectacularly.

“I’m going to take a pill and you can watch me do it!” Rhys’ voice reaches a higher pitch. He isn’t trying to trick Jack into anything here. He just wanted some extra fun, and now he’s managed to ruin it all without even trying. 

Maybe he can still pull his neck out of the sling. “Okay, that was a really stupid idea, can we just pretend I didn’t say anything? Please?”

Jack’s nostrils flare, and he blinks slowly. “You want me to fuck you.” He licks his lips, speaking overly steadily. “You want me to _knot_ you. Without a condom.”

“Yeah?” Rhys answers, confused now. It almost sounds like Jack’s talking to himself. Rhys turns slightly, trying to get a better look at Jack’s body language. His eyes widen, and he swallows reflexively.

Usually, they are already going at it when he feels it for the first time, already half-frantic with lust and eager for an orgasm.

This is the first time he can see the swell at the base of Jack’s cock this clearly, thickening, right before his eyes

Jack’s knot forming while they are not even really touching each other. 

Just for him. Just for Rhys.

He loses all of his breath with the realisation, his fingers digging into Jack’s arm.

Like it’s the signal he’s been waiting for, Jack jolts back into action, and he’s bent over Rhys again fast enough that Rhys falls back with a startled noise.

“You want my cock in you?” Jack asks, and there’s gravel in his voice while he spreads Rhys’ legs apart. “Want to feel it completely?” He settles between them, hips flush against Rhys’ ass.

Shivering, all Rhys manages is a high-pitched noise in answer, pressed into the pillow.

“Tell me, Rhys.” Jack growls against Rhys’ throat while he’s rubbing his cock slowly over Rhys’ dripping hole. “Tell me what you want.”

It’s like a dam breaking, an airlock opening, the words falling out of his Rhys’ mouth in a rush. “I want you inside of me, just you, nothing else, I want you to come inside of me, I want all of it.” Dizzy with the lack of air, he’s forced to take a breath. “Always so warm, but I can never keep it, please fill me up, give me everything you have, I need it, I need you, alpha, _Ja—_.”

Either Jack has imperceptible timing or his patience just ran out at the right moment. Either way, he pushes inside of Rhys while Rhys says his name, and Rhys mouth stays open in a silent scream, his fingers digging into the bedding.

There’s the distinct sound of fabric tearing, nothing more than an afterthought.

Eyes screwed shut, Rhys can do nothing but take every violent snap of Jack’s hips, barely able to get enough air into his lungs while Jack grunts above him. Jack’s cock feels so thick, so _hot_ , and Rhys needs more of it.

He tries to meet the alpha’s thrusts, but Jack’s palms settle on his hips, stilling him, and Rhys is just about to try again anyway when the knot teases at his hole.

“Please,” he begs, half drooling into the pillow, and shaking all over. If he wasn’t completely out of his mind right now, Rhys might be worried about the stretch of a fully-formed knot pressing into him, but right now that seems like a very distant and abstract problem.

Jack growls, pushes in and out even harder, each thrust sounding more wet than the one before while his teeth find Rhys’ shoulder once more, the same place he worked at earlier.

He bites down just as his knot forces its way inside of Rhys’ already stretched hole, and the pain-pleasure of it is too much.

Rhys blacks out, loses a couple of seconds, and when his brain is done rebooting, Jack’s already spending himself inside of Rhys, filling him with hot come. He mumbles something unintelligible, barely conscious and blissed right out of his mind.

The alpha’s wonderfully hairy chest is pressed close against his sweaty back, their combined scents all around them; Jack’s cock jerks, sending another warm pulse inside of him, and Rhys comes without being touched, messily, onto the bedding.

“‘was a good idea,” he slurs sometime later, feeling too full and too satisfied to put into words. “Best idea.”

An amused snort against his neck, followed by a tongue. “You have your moments.” Jack draws his left arm around Rhys, splays his fingers out over Rhys’ full stomach, and applies just the tiniest amount of pressure.

The sensation is too weird, too much, makes Rhys squirm, and that causes him to accidentally pull at the large knot still wedged snuggly inside of him.

The alpha grumbles, and Rhys squirms once more, just to feel that wonderful tug again.

A warning growl makes him stop, though only grudgingly. 

He puts his left palm on top of Jack’s hand, lets out a content sigh. 

Rhys can’t remember the last time somebody knotted him without protection, but it feels so raw, so intense, he already knows he’ll end up begging Jack to do it again sooner rather than later. He bites his lip to stop a shaky inhalation; he’s lying with Handsome Jack right now, it’s only him and Jack, broken down to their most basic elements.

Fitting together like this is how it was meant to be the entire time.

Following that realisation, and in the warm embrace of his alpha, it’s all too easy to just float for a while.

Eventually, Jack’s fingers begin to draw lazy circles on his swollen belly. “You know,” the alpha says, voice rough and pleasant like his touch. “What do you say…” He trails off, presses his nose against the back of Rhys’ neck and inhales deeply. “Don’t take the pill,” he says finally, a lot more quietly. “Let’s just see what happens.”

Impossibly, Rhys melts even further against the strong chest at his back. Then he shivers, makes a thoughtful noise.

Somewhere, in the most removed parts of his head, he knows that it’s not that easy. There’s a catch here, he just can’t see it right now.

It’s unsettling enough to lift the haze of pleasure slightly, and though necessary, Rhys is reluctant to let go more of it. He allows himself another small moment of thought, not really using it for thinking, to be honest. “Sounds like another good idea to me,” he answers, equally quietly.

And even though Rhys can already tell the knot inside of him is beginning to shrink, Jack’s hips buck forward, trying to get even closer, and if that isn’t proof that this was the right answer Rhys doesn’t know what is.

“Good,” is all Jack says, but his voice is now rough in a different, loaded kind of way.

For a while, the only sounds in the small room are their slowing breaths, but the silence is not uncomfortable.

Rhys decides that unpacking what just happened can wait until later. _Thinking_ can wait until later.

Jack’s knot slips out of him, followed by a steady trickle of come. He pats Rhys’ hip, already moving off the bed. “Gotta go. That billion credits deal can only wait for so long.”

The noise of displeasure leaves Rhys’ mouth entirely without his input, but he’s grateful for it, because suddenly Jack is leaning over him again.

“I know, I know, but some of us are actually vital to the existence of this little enterprise and can’t just lounge around in bed all day and night.” Contrary to his amused words, he slips a finger back into Rhys’ twitching hole, licks a wet stripe over Rhys’ shoulder.

Humming, Rhys arches into the touch, and generously decides to ignore the drivel dripping out of Jack’s mouth.

Jack sighs, and with a last, messy and disgusting sounding twist of his fingers, gets off the bed once more. “Stay as long you like, babe, but daddy's gotta go and earn that sweet, sweet cash.”

The door slides open and closed again around Rhys’ unhappy grumbling. Without Jack’s presence, the cozy little bedroom instantly feels less welcome, and Rhys can already tell the drop won’t be far off.

With a sigh of his own he gets up, ignoring the insistent call for rest from his body. Armored once more with the blanket-toga, he leaves for the bathroom, isn’t even tempted to check if Jack is watching him.

And if the come he can now feel steadily trickling out of him and down his legs ends up making a mess on Jack’s shiny black tiles that’s hardly Rhys’ fault now is it?

He hurries through a quick shower, only allows himself long enough to slather himself with expensive body wash to mask most of Jack’s scent, and to clean out most of Jack’s come.

As good as it is while you’re in the thick of it, this sticky aftermath he really could do without.

Rhys shivers, feeling cold despite the warm water.

But maybe that’s just the drop talking. Or the sheer magnitude of Rhys’ actions which seem to be tangible enough that Rhys should be able to see them hanging over his head.

He’s already drying himself off when he realises a small problem.

He doesn’t have anything to wear.

A hesitant look out of the bathroom door shows that Jack is sitting on one of the small guest-chairs in front of his desk, looking slightly uncomfortable, and while that sight gives Rhys a certain amount of dark satisfaction, it doesn’t really solve his problem.

After a second of heated internal debate he heads back into the bedroom, grabs another pair of Jack’s boxershorts, a shirt and some socks. He could also grab Jack’s jeans, but to be honest, Rhys’ legs deserve better than that.

His coat should still be lying around somewhere outside, and for once his hope is actually rewarded; it’s hanging on one of the artistic little statues close by. 

Suspiciously, his sandals are lying next to it as well, and Rhys is not quite strong enough to leave the office without a last, definitely not longing look back at Jack, and so he has to wave back at Jack when their eyes meet, just a lot less enthusiastic.

Rhys has no idea what time it is, but thankfully most of Helios seems to be busy at their desks and Rhys manages to return to his and Vaughn’s apartment with only a couple of speculative glances sent his way.

With any luck his friends will still be at work for a while and Rhys’ll have some time to compose himself and prepare a story for them.

It’s probably going to be okay. That nervous flutter of impending doom is just the drop making itself comfortable in Rhys’ skin, and this is not actually as bad as Rhys is making it out to be.

So what if Jack isn’t against the highly theoretical idea of getting Rhys pregnant at some point. No big deal, even if the shiver running down his spine and the probably spectacular hickey he can already feel forming on his shoulder aren’t entirely sure about that. But what do they know?

This is just one more line in the complicated song and dance routine he and Jack are doing.

It’s going to be _fine_.


	4. Chapter 4

“This is the worst possible scenario and we’re going to leave the station immediately!” Vaughn says, not for the first time, as if repeating the words will somehow finally drive the point home.

Rhys’ luck must be on a vacation, because his friends were not at work, but waiting for him, and so Rhys didn’t even have a second to gather his thoughts and prepare for their barrage of questions.

“Vaughn,” Rhys tries, again, now with even more of a whine than before.

But Vaughn only frowns at him. “Oh no, you’re obviously compromised.” He turns to Yvette, pleadingly. “As the only other person in this room not completely beholden to Handsome Jack, back me up on this, Yvette. Please.”

Rhys blows out a loud breath, his head resting on the back of their sofa. It’s as far as he made it inside before Yvette gently but firmly drew him down next to her while Vaughn sat down opposite of them. He’s trying really hard not to read anything into that, but if Yvette is on his side here, she’s been weirdly… quiet about it.

He peeks at her out of the corner of his eyes.

Yvette’s looking at him, chin propped up on one hand. As if that’s what she’s been waiting for, her mouth quirks into a half-smile. Her attention moves to Vaughn. “Let’s go about this rationally first, alright?”

Obviously miffed, Vaughn crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Sure, try to explain to me how we’re not neck-deep in skag shit right now. Should be entertaining at least.”

Snorting, Yvette shakes her head. “How gracious of you.” She focuses on Rhys once more, and Rhys straightens automatically.

He wouldn’t call her eyes piercing or anything, at least not usually, but now? It’s like being under a laser before an invasive and dangerous surgery. Rhys is talking from experience here.

“Handsome Jack knotted you without a condom, and then his exact words were, _don’t take a pill and we’ll see what happens_ , is that correct?”

Rhys tries his very best not to squirm. “Yeah?” 

He might have possibly skipped the part in which it was _his_ idea to fuck without a condom in the first place, and it was probably too late to backpedal on that around the time Vaughn demanded they abandon ship for the second time. 

At least that’s what Rhys is successfully telling himself right now.

Yvette raises an eyebrow at him, and okay, that’s just not fair. 

Rhys doesn’t need two alphas in his life to give him the eyebrow of judgement. He coughs into a fist. “I mean, yeah. Something like that.”

“Something like that,” Vaughn mutters, and Rhys scowls at him. “Don’t look at me like that!” He points at Rhys with an accusing finger. “Did you, at any point, stop to consider the ramifications of that?”

They know him well enough not to ask if he actually wants to get pregnant, and Rhys appreciates that. Seeing as they’re the ones left to deal with him when Rhys limps back every time Jack kicks him out, doing their best to coax him out of the drop-sized hole he’s fallen into, anything else would have seriously thrown Rhys off.

So yeah, Rhys is grateful. Generally speaking. Just not right now.

Jutting his chin out, Rhys sniffs. “Yes, I did.” At least he’s pretty sure he did. “It didn’t sound like he actually wanted me to get pregnant. He doesn’t expect it to happen. As soon as you two are done making a big deal out of it, I’ll go grab a pill from the bathroom and that’ll be the end of it.”

Vaughn puts his face into his hands, as if Rhys somehow managed to disappoint him even more and he can’t stand to look at Rhys any longer.

When it becomes clear that Rhys has finally managed to stun Vaughn into desolate silence, Yvette makes a quiet noise, and turns her body fully towards Rhys.

She takes his hand, as if that will somehow soften the blow he’s sure she’s about to deliver to his plan. “You take a pill, and that’ll be the end of it. This time.” She grimaces, and her fingers tap nervously on his prosthetic. “What if he wants to do it again? And again?”

“And again,” comes a muffled, dull echo from Vaughn.

Yvette nods. “What happens when you run out?”

Half confused, half annoyed, and all itching from the stupid drop, Rhys almost gives in to the urge to shake her off, to move away. “He’s going to lose interest eventually,” Rhys says with conviction, because even if they felt so wonderfully right together, eventually that’s what will happen. 

Rhys is a boring nobody, and Jack will find somebody new and more interesting. “Until then I’ll go get new ones.” If his brain was working at full capacity, he might be able to figure out what they think the problem is here, but he’s just… really tired.

He wants them to cuddle him and he wants to be left alone in his misery and they are doing neither of those things.

Yvette gives him a long look. “What if he doesn’t?” 

Rhys snorts, waves her words away with a hand, too exhausted to explain to them how ridiculous that is for the hundredth time.

“Alright.” She moves on with a frown. “From where?” Yvette asks, not unkindly. “Do you think a bribe will be enough to keep the pharmacists quiet when Handsome Jack comes sniffing around? Do you have a secret backdoor into Helios’ systems that you merely forgot to tell us about that’ll allow you to order from the outside without leaving a trail behind?”

The uncomfortable feeling in his stomach turns into slag. He blinks slowly, his mind spinning around in crooked, useless circles.

Maybe he really didn’t think this through enough?

His heavy silence is apparently answer enough, because Vaughn says, still muffled, “can we start packing now, please?”

“That might not be necessary. At least not right away.”

When Rhys and Vaughn’s hopeful eyes zero in on her almost comically fast, she smiles. “I might know somebody who knows somebody.”

There’s a big lump in Rhys’ throat, but Vaughn manages a weak, “really?”

Yvette laughs softly, lifting the mood instantly. “Yes, really. So before we do anything rash,” she levels a quick look at Vaughn, and a longer, more meaningful one at Rhys which, okay, is probably fair at this point. “Let’s wait and see how that works out.”

Vaughn sighs, long and deep. It’s like all of his anger and panic leaves him with it. He slides bonelessly off his seat, and trudges over to them.

The prickly feeling under Rhys’ skin recedes slightly when Vaughn crouches down in front of him, draws his arms around Rhys’ legs and leans his head on top of them.

He always complains about how bony Rhys’ knees are, but right now, it looks like there’s no other place on Helios he’d rather be, and Rhys’ traitorous fingers have found their way into Vaughn’s hair even before Rhys has decided to stop being annoyed with him.

With another soft laugh, Yvette entwines her fingers with Rhys’ cybernetic ones, and rests her head on Rhys’ shoulder, protected from the cool and hard metal by the coat he’s still wearing.

“I just want to have it on record that I still don’t like this,” Vaughn says mulishly. “And I really hate that you’re wearing his clothes right now.”

Smiling, Rhys pokes Vaughn’s forehead. “Go grab me something else then. You can hardly expect me to get up myself while you’ve got me locked down.”

“Sure. Just give me a minute.” He chuckles quietly, tiredly, and Rhys feels bad about making him worry so much. “I’ve managed to impale myself on your bony knees.”

Rhys pokes him once more, not feeling bad any longer.

But Vaughn makes no move to get up again, to let go, and Rhys is fine with that. He rests his head on top of Yvette’s, tension seeping out of him completely for the first time since he left the apartment last night.

Jack’s scent is still with him, but so are Vaughn and Yvette’s, and the uneven mesh of it all is the best thing in all of the known universes.

They stay like this for long enough that Rhys’ feet are beginning to get cold when Vaughn stands up. “I’m going to make us something to drink.” He rubs his probably aching knees and Rhys winces in sympathy. They really need a softer carpet. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” he tells Yvette, ignores Rhys’ pouting, and leaves for the kitchen area.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Yvette takes his place at Rhys’ feet, and Rhys gives her a surprised and slightly nervous look.

“Are you really okay?” she asks quietly, her hand resting on his upper legs.

Blinking, Rhys takes a long moment to answer. Well, that was not what he expected. “Yeah?” No, he probably shouldn’t leave that hanging like that. “Yeah, why?” Better. Probably.

She sighs, worries her lips. “You are lucky Vaughn was distracted, because otherwise we would already be on a shuttle.” Gently, Yvette takes both of Rhys’ hands into hers.

It takes Rhys a bit. He follows her gaze down, to their hands.

To his wrist where the coat has ridden up and is showing the edges of the bruise encircling his wrist. Thanks to the salve, the pain is down to a dull throb, but it still looks aggressively bad.

And he hadn’t noticed this before, but there are stark and uneven lines visible on his cybernetic arm where the black and yellow coating was grated off to reveal the simple silver underneath.

Rhys blinks. “Oh.”

Shaking with silent, disbelieving laughter, Yvette shakes her head. “Oh, indeed.” The amusement vanishes again, replaced by naked concern in her gaze. She squeezes his fingers.

“I’m okay,” Rhys says, and it’s the truth. He’s okay now.

Yvette looks at him for a moment longer, head tilted to the side. “Good.” She smiles, her voice quiet, pleasant. “Jack’s lucky he took care of it and apparently slathered you up in creme that is more expensive than our monthly income combined to make up for it or I’d be coming for his head right now.”

Rhys mirrors her smile automatically. Then her words register with him. “What?” he hisses, leaning closer to her so Vaughn doesn’t hear. Like this, it becomes apparent that despite the shower he still smells a bit like the very sweet citrus. “How do you know about the super expensive and rare creme?”

The grin stretching over her lips makes him shiver. “I’m not averse to a bit of relaxation myself after a rough session.”

“‘vette,” Rhys says, mock scandalised. “You’ve been holding out on us!”

They’re still chuckling quietly when Vaughn comes back, three steaming mugs balanced in his hands. “How terrible!” he calls, eyes wide and voice mournful. “I see Yvette has fallen prey to your weaponised knees as well!”

Rhys sticks his tongue out at him, and Yvette throws herself off of him, making dramatic, wounded noises while writhing on the floor.

He tries to put his naked feet onto Yvette’s face in retaliation.

Once Jack kicks him out for good, it might take some time, but as long as he has his friends, he knows he’s going to be okay.


End file.
